


Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls

by AllonsyHelen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bucky is in an indie rock band, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Musician Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Tension, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve has an awkward assignment, guitarist Bucky Barnes, naked posing, sad Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyHelen/pseuds/AllonsyHelen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's tips for what to do when you find yourself standing naked in a hot guy's living room while he draws you for an art school assignment:<br/>1) DON'T tell him you're in a band that was once called Fusion of the Empty Goose.<br/>2) DO flex. Everything. A lot.<br/>3) DON'T picture said hot guy naked.<br/>4) When you end up picturing him naked, DON'T apologize for your erection. This will force him to respond to the fact that your penis is hard.<br/>5) DON'T joke about how the fact that he's paying you makes you like a prostitute. This will lead to him awkwardly rescinding his offer to pay you, and you are a poor college dropout. The money is the ONLY reason you're doing this.<br/>6) DO kill Natasha for setting this up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Receives an Awkward Assignment, and Bucky Unknowingly Locks Into Place Both of their Fates

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to write something kind of serious, kind of funny, kind of fluffy, kind of angsty, kind of smutty, and this is that! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Translation into español [here](https://www.wattpad.com/231999393-draw-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls-01-trabajos)

Thursday, 12:03pm, Central Park.

Steve’s fingertips are covered in charcoal, but he forgets this as he reaches up and brushes away whatever’s landed on his cheek. The little bit of leaf that had come twirling down from the tree above him falls to the ground, and he goes back to his work. The drawing of his mother is taking form, and he’s moving to the body after finishing the face, before he starts on the hair. The effect is haunting, and all-too familiar, to the time just before the cancer took her life, when the chemotherapy had taken her hair. Steve’s fingers squeeze the charcoal tightly, as if their shaking could be stopped if he can only hold tight enough. He draws his mother in the dress they buried her in.

A young boy walks by holding his mother’s hand, and Steve bitterly looks away, wondering what he’s done that God would punish him like that. Was he not already unhappy enough? Was he not suffering? The assignment was to draw his hero, an utterly cliché assignment and one all-too fitting for his first class back after taking two weeks of absence to grieve his mother’s death and figure out how he was going to live now. He had moved all of his things to Natasha and Sam’s apartment and crammed himself into their living room. He’d stretched a sheet over their sofa and called it a bed; Sam had insisted that he didn’t mind trading his double bed for bunk beds so they could both sleep in his room, but Steve preferred his own space.

Neither Natasha nor Sam pointed out that the living room was the opposite of his ‘own space.’

It’s proven difficult, living with Sam and Natasha. The two of them have so much sexual tension that Steve finds it awkward just to sit in the same room as them. They assure him that they’re just friends, and both of them blush hard enough at his accusation that he’s inclined to believe them, as ridiculous as it is. Natasha is a dancer, not that being a dancer means that she’s automatically sexual, but the way she moves her body suggests that she’s more in touch with it than most; when Steve met her in freshman year, she flirted with him and he laughed, and their friendship was sealed in stone.

Steve had found it hard to believe, and still would find it hard to believe, that someone like Natasha would be attracted to someone like him. It’s much more likely that she’d be attracted to Sam Wilson, the piano player with the delicate fingers, dark, blemish-free skin, sharp eyes, and beautiful smile, and okay yes, _Steve_ is a little bit attracted to Sam. To both of them, really, but he wouldn’t say it to them. Instead he prefers to live out his days silently indulging in his sexual fantasies in his own mind, never hinting to anyone else that just because he’s short and skinny, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it just as badly as everyone else.

By now, in the summer term before his senior year of college, Steve has kissed exactly three girls and one boy, touched one pair of boobs, and given a handjob. He’s aware that he leads a perfectly sad existence, especially considering that he _wants_ more so badly. But that’ll have to do for now, since his own happiness has been put on the backburner. It’s time for him to dive into his art, forget pining after people who will never give him the chance, and make a career for himself in the impossible world of art.

He checks his watch – he has class in less than half an hour – and carefully puts his drawing pad into his bookbag. He slings it over his shoulder and stands up, stretching a bit, and walks leisurely out of the park. He sticks to the outer limits when he has somewhere to be soon, preferring to venture deeper in when he has entire afternoons to kill. Sunday mornings, too, his friends know where they can find him. He stopped going to church when his mother got sick and couldn’t attend either, instead electing to read her passages from the Bible and lead the two of them in a limited Bible discussion. Now he takes the workbook the two of them were halfway through to a secluded area of the park and lays on his back, holding it above his head, with the green leaves of a tree framing the pages, and forms the words he reads with his lips, sometimes discussing the questions aloud to himself. It’s sad, but no one has the heart to suggest that it’s unhealthy. They aren’t sure if it really is.

Honestly, Sam and Natasha aren’t sure what to do about him. It’s only been two weeks and there are no helpful manuals to turn to that will sufficiently answer the question of ‘What do I do when my best friend’s mom has just died of cancer?’ There are plenty of people who have advice on the subject, but most of it is contradictory.

Steve can see in their eyes that they pity him but try to hide it. Natasha’s parents are both long gone, and all of the foster parents she’s had have disappeared, leaving her to fend for herself. It’s Sam who picks up the majority of the rent on their apartment, because he’s landed himself a paid internship at $13/hr for 40 hours a week this summer. Natasha takes as many hours as a barista at Starbucks as she can, but like Steve, she’s scrambling to get in all of her required credits so she can graduate a semester early and avoid paying for one more semester. Summer courses are discounted and they’re both busy, but not quite busy enough.

Natasha smiles at him warmly as Steve comes into the Starbucks now and steps up to the counter. “Hi,” he says, tapping his fingers against the counter.

“Hi, sir, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you today?” she asks him formally.

Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Hit me with the usual, barkeep,” he says in a Brooklyn drawl.

Natasha laughs. “Name?”

“Flanders.”

Natasha busies herself making his drink and sets it on the counter a few moments later with the word ‘Fucker’ written on it. “Sorry. Guess I misheard you,” she says apologetically.

“Most people do,” Steve says, sipping it. “See you after class?”

“Come meet me here, I get off at 2.”

He gives her a wave and he’s off, walking back out into the summer heat.

-

“These are good,” Professor Martin who told them to call her Aubrey, a woman with flowy dresses and wrinkles around her eyes, says as she walks past the easels the Advanced Drawing students have set up around the naturally-lit art studio. She pauses by Steve and lowers her voice, “Good to have you back, I marked the last project as excused incomplete, it shouldn’t affect your grade.”

Steve nods his thanks politely and watches her as she moves through the room, pausing and pointing to details on other students’ drawings. The professors mostly know him and he’s pretty sure they like him. He’s always been good at attending class and doing what he’s asked. He started out with a natural gift, curated throughout his life with the encouragement of his mother and his high school art teacher, who told him time and again that he’d gouge out his own eyes if Steve never became an artist.

It was a risk, going to art school, but he managed a scholarship and he’d pay back the loans somehow, eventually. Now he has money that his mother left him, and it feels like a disrespect to use it immediately, and to pay off his student loans at that, but she’d assured him that she wouldn’t mind if he did. His part-time job at a bookstore is hardly covering his portion of the rent, and she’d known he would be stressed out about using her money. Of course, Steve would rather he be up to his ears in student debt but have his mother alive.

Steve doesn’t know what he wants to do after graduation, only that he wants to keep doing art. He’ll work as many hours as he can at the bookstore, and once he’s done with classes, he’ll pick up another job too, anything to stay out of a cubicle. As long as he keeps his health, he should be able to support himself until something happens with his art. He just hopes that will happen sooner rather than later.

He tries not to think too much of the future, especially when he has a project to be working on. He closes his eyes, clears his thoughts, and presses charcoal to paper again, giving his mother her beautiful hair back.

Five minutes before the end of class, Aubrey claps her hands lightly for everyone’s attention. “I know I didn’t do much instruction this session, but everyone’s doing remarkably well. Keep it up, guys, I love what I’m seeing here. I have a feeling you’ll all be done very soon, so I have a new assignment for you. It’s due five weeks from now, at the end of the term, but you can’t put this off. I need you each to choose a person who’s willing to let you draw them and do a figure study in _several parts_.” She emphasizes this. “You have five weeks. Do not put this off! And _don’t_ choose someone you know well. Try to pick an acquaintance, a new friend, a coworker, though that might be a bit awkward. Choose someone you can get to know through this medium and we’ll see if you can’t make them come alive.”

Everyone stands up, talking to each other immediately about who they’ll pick. Steve finds himself walking out of the room with Lauren, a girl he’s had a few classes with before, who’s nice and chatty and apparently not afraid to talk to someone whose mom just died.

“I’m not sure how I’ll find someone who I don’t know that well who’s still willing to pose for me,” she says. “I mean I’d do it for someone else but the chances of anyone else doing it for me? I might just do my girlfriend and be done with it.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah I might just draw Nat,” he says. Nat is beautiful and she would be unashamed about letting him draw her.

“Right since she’s basically your girlfriend anyway.” Lauren nudges him with her elbow, then just before turning down another hallway, she says, “Not to make you feel awkward but I am sorry about your mom. I was hoping she’d pull through.”

Steve smiles gratefully at her. “She’s happier now,” he says, and it’s something he’s repeated a lot in these past few weeks.

“Of course,” Lauren agrees, and gives him a tiny smile and a wave before turning and leaving.

-

“So a figure study like a nude figure study?” Natasha asks. She’s holding her iced coffee tight between her hands, breaking the no talking on the subway rule, as she always does when there are important conversations to be had. At least she’s leaning in close to Steve so she doesn’t have to shout. “As in, you have to find someone who you don’t know that well-”

“Or just anyone really,” Steve cuts in, eyeing the old man sitting nearby who’s looking directly at Natasha’s ass.

“-who’s willing to pose naked? I mean you can’t do me or Sam, Aubrey knows us and she knows you know us. That’ll get you points off.” Natasha takes a sip of her drink, and then casually sends a glare in the old man’s direction. Steve swears that girl has eyes in the back of her head.

“Not necessarily, it was really just a suggestion she made,” Steve says, even though he knows Natasha is right. He can’t draw her or Sam.

“Still, it seems impossible to find someone,” Natasha says. “And six drawings? You know you’re gonna have to pay someone.”

“Like a weird prostitution thing?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s not sure he feels comfortable with this at all.

“No, it’s not prostitution if you don’t fuck ‘em.” Nat makes wide eyes at him and then sips from her straw.

“You have a point,” Steve allows, and then Nat launches into a tirade against her oppressive boss and how she’ll someday become a boss who will take down the cliché of oppressive bosses because she’s tired of complaining and hearing other people complain about them. Steve laughs because she’s right, and she’s funny, and because he’s slightly relieved he _doesn’t_ have to draw her naked six times.

That night over paper plates and a poorly portioned spaghetti to Bolognese ratio, Natasha tells Sam about Steve’s predicament.

“It’s not really a big deal,” Steve says from his position on the floor. His plate is sitting on the coffee table and Nat and Sam are sitting on the couch-turned-bed.

“Sounds like a kind of big deal,” Sam says, sipping water out of a wine glass. “Who are you gonna ask?”

“I don’t really know,” Steve admits. “I don’t have that many acquaintances who I feel like would be willing. I know people who definitely _wouldn’t_ do it, and I have close friends who definitely _would_ …”

Sam and Natasha are quiet for a moment. “Oh!” Natasha snaps her fingers. “I know. I’ll set you up with somebody. I have a bunch of friends you don’t know.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Nat, but I’ll find someone.”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Nat assures him, and she goes back to eating her pasta. “I’ll ask around. How much are you willing to pay? The price will make a difference, I swear.”

“You’re going to pay someone?” Sam asks. “Damn, I can pretend not to be your friend for twenty bucks an hour.”

“I’m not paying twenty bucks an hour,” Steve says, “and I don’t know, maybe fifteen a week?”

“Okay but if they want to negotiate how high are you willing to go?”

“Jesus this isn’t a Wall Street business deal!” Steve exclaims, but then he says, “Twenty is my highest.”

“Twenty a week it is,” Natasha says. “And finally. Male or female, what is your preference?”

“Well ain’t that the question for the ages?” Sam asks loudly, laughing at his own joke and slapping his knee.

“I don’t care,” Steve says, but then quickly adds, “Male. I have more practice drawing women.”

“I’ll find you a cheap male escort then.” Natasha’s beaming as if she’s already done it. “And don’t worry, he’ll be hot.”

\--

Friday, 9:11pm, Starbucks.

Bucky’s examining his fingertips. The callous on his forefinger of his left hand is peeling, and that’s what he gets for taking a few days off playing to go _fishing_ of all things. Summer vacation entails certain things in the Barnes family, and his father roped him into a fishing trip before Christmas break was even over. Bucky doesn’t mind fishing trips; a few days in nature are good for the spirit, though his dad doesn’t think of it in quite that way. “Fishing trips are good for poor eating, lots of beer, and good laughs about women.” That’s his mantra, more or less, when it comes to fishing, and it’s why Rebecca never wants to come along. She’s always invited but it’s pretty clear that these fishing trips are a ‘man thing,’ and not the kind the feminist in her wants to stomp down.

So Bucky found himself, a week ago, sitting on a fishing boat, holding his pole, trying not to doze off. This is the second time he’s been fishing, the first time being the summer before he left his home in upstate New York to go to the city for a PoliSci degree. That hadn’t lasted long, and he was only three semesters before he dropped out, formed a band, moved in with his bandmates, and was playing two or three shows a week if they were lucky. Bucky was the guitarist for their band, the name of which had changed eight times in the past month, from Audio Monkeys to Joey and the New Yorkers to Audio Gang Bang to Fusion of the Empty Goose and a few other stupid-ass names, then back to their original name, Bear Paw.

“So how’s the band?” Bucky’s dad would ask as they floated along, and Bucky would grunt and say the band was good, knowing that his response didn’t matter because his parents would never fully approve of several things about him. They loved him but they would never get used to the fact that he had dropped out of college, NYU to be exact, which they’d saved up hundreds of thousands of dollars for him to go to, and where he’d earned scholarships and financial aid to make it affordable. In a moment of passion and clichés, Bucky had shouted at them that “NYU was _your_ dream! Not mine!” This was somewhere between his telling them he was dropping out, and his telling them that he was in a band now. Of course, he had to work at Starbucks too before they got their big break, because gigs didn’t pay much and shared between the four of them, the money would never pay the bills.

Another thing his parents didn’t approve of was the fact that he was bisexual. He’d come out to them after moving to New York and realizing that he for sure liked dick. They didn’t like that about him but they figured that since he still liked women, he was either just doing it to be edgy, or he would end up choosing a woman to make his life easier. He tried not to bring up his interest in men for the sake of familial peace.

Another thing he did for the sake of familial peace, he rarely went home.

Other questions from his dad included whether or not he was excited about Becca coming to the city to attend Sarah Lawrence, and of course he was. He loved Becca and he couldn’t wait to show her what a real New York good time looked like. It didn’t even have to involve alcohol, since he knew she was probably going to be anxious about him getting her a fake ID. He always worried that she was too influenced by their parents’ right-leaning politics and ideologies, though she accepted him and even said she thought it was cool that he dropped out rather than waste his time and parents’ money somewhere he didn’t like doing something he wasn’t that passionate about.

His dad also wanted to know if he’d found himself a girlfriend yet. The answer, as ever, was no. Bucky wasn’t opposed to the concept of a boyfriend or girlfriend, but if he did date, it was never serious enough to tell his parents about. He’d dated a girl named Rachel for two months and didn’t tell them because he knew they’d get all excited, and if it didn’t work out – which, of course, it didn’t – he’d have to tell them and they’d be upset. He’d had one night stands and other flings, the usual fare for a young twentysomething guitarist in New York, and he was much more interested in playing music and making enough money to stay alive than getting a significant other. The right person might fall into his lap one day and he wouldn’t make a fuss, but until then, he wasn’t too interested in going out of his way to find someone.

The fishing trip had overall been a success, or so Bucky assumed. He didn’t love camping or eating grits and beer wasn’t his beverage of choice, but his dad seemed to be having a good time. He was able to pretend Bucky was exactly the son he’d always wanted. He even talked about Bucky’s Little League days which, by all counts, were an utter failure. He couldn’t field a ball to save his life and when he did hit them they usually went foul. He had more success at soccer but his dad deemed it a European sport that Americans had no business playing, and didn’t sign Bucky up for another season. Bucky didn’t mind too much anyway, since he was only really doing the sports scene for his dad’s fulfillment. He much preferred his music lessons that he got through the school. He learned how to play trumpet starting in third grade when the music teacher paraded all the band instruments before the gathered third graders in the auditorium and then sent home information packets about lessons and elementary band that Bucky shoved in his parents’ faces and refused to drop until they signed him up. He’d played the trumpet dedicatedly all the way through twelfth grade, making drum major of the middle school marching band in eighth grade and section leader of the trumpets all four years in high school marching band. His parents came and supported him at the football games, though his dad was a lot more interested in the football than the halftime show, but at least he came. When Bucky showed interest in learning more instruments, they bought him an electric piano and an Epiphone acoustic guitar and got him lessons in both. He took especially to the guitar and hadn’t put it down since.

Once every few years, Bucky figures it wouldn’t hurt him to pretend to be the son his dad had so clearly always wanted him to be, the kind who loves fishing, beer, sports, and _only_ girls. He was relieved when the duty was over and he was on a train back to the city, and after only a few hours he’s back into his routine, peeling callouses off his fingers and serving coffee at Starbucks on a Friday night.

Natasha’s working tonight too, the beautiful dancer who he would 100% sleep with in a heartbeat but who is 110% not interested in him in that way. She’d made it clear that she would be his friend but _only_ his friend, and he doesn’t push it. You win some, you lose some, as she pointed out to him.

Around 9pm, as it’s getting slow, Natasha leans against the counter next to him. Bucky’s preoccupied with his fingers but he glances up at her out of the corner of his eye. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing, I just have a favor to ask you,” Natasha says coyly.

“Oh God.” Bucky groans and turns to look at her fully. “What is it and why do I dread it?”

Natasha laughs but there’s a glint in her eye that tells Bucky he isn’t wrong to dread it. “It’s an opportunity for a little money.”

“Who says I need money?”

“Your Starbucks uniform.”

Bucky sighs. “What is it?”

“I have a friend, he’s an artist, he’s really talented and he needs somebody to draw for a project for school,” Natasha explains.

“Okay…” Bucky says slowly. “And you thought immediately of me with my dark handsome looks?”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Natasha says. “Actually he’s willing to pay you like twenty bucks a week, and he needs you to come back six times. So that’s like $120.”

“I make more than that in a week of working,” Bucky points out.

“Well you wouldn’t be doing it for the money.”

“Okay…so he just needs me to come like once a week for a few weeks and what, just sit while he draws me?” Bucky asks skeptically. It seems like a weird setup or something.

“Yeah basically.”

“Why can’t you just do it?”

“It has to be somebody he doesn’t know that well.”

“What’s his name?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers, and Bucky…” Natasha leans in and takes on a very serious tone. “Please, he’s having a rough time and he’s going to stress out if he doesn’t find somebody, and I know that you’re a nice guy and you’re attractive and you’ll be nice about it. So, please? For me?”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

Natasha grins. “So you’ll do it?” She sticks out a hand and Bucky shakes it, a little confused. “Great! Also you’re gonna need to be naked.” She rushes this out so Bucky thinks he couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.

He tilts his head. “Sorry, what?”

“I’ll give him your number, thanks so much, Bucky, this is going to mean the world to him, really!” Natasha grins and turns to help a customer who’s just walked in.

Bucky just stares at her for a moment. “Oh, fuck,” he curses to himself before turning to go clean the counter. This has to be the weirdest thing he’s ever gotten himself into.


	2. Steve Grieves while Bucky Regrets His Amenability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit shorter but I wanted to upload something today and I think that a closer look at both of them is in order before we throw them into the same room together, naked and afraid. (Or, one of them anyway.)

Friday. 11:23pm.

Bucky’s strumming his guitar idly, sitting on his single bed in the room he shares with Todd, the bass player. Everyone else is out at some club but he had to work and after work he just wanted to come home, shower, and relax. He didn’t feel like drinking, dancing, and probably throwing up and spending Saturday morning miserable.

The rest of the band seems to have endless stamina but Bucky sometimes just feels like having a night in. Especially when he has things to think about. Like this artist who’s going to stare at his junk and draw it. Or at least, Bucky  _assumes_  that will be part of it. What kind of artist would he be if he doesn’t draw it, but just leaves it blank?

Nope. This guy is going to be recreating Bucky’s junk for his professor and probably his entire class to see. And Bucky just hopes to God the likeness won’t be good enough that anyone from the class would recognize him if they came into Starbucks. He'd be able to see it in their eyes, the slight recognition, a little tilt of the head, a glance down at his pants, and a stammer as they ordered their drink. And then Bucky would proceed to melt into the floor, never to make another coffee again for as long as his miserable little puddle existence would last.

His phone buzzes from the bedside table and he leans over to look at it.

7182739572: Hi this is Steve, Natasha’s friend doing the project, thank you so much for doing this, I didn’t actually expect anyone to say yes. Let me know when you’re free!

Bucky: Oh hi Steve, yeah it’s no big deal. I’m free on Sunday if you are.

Bucky enters Steve’s number into his phone after he sends his reply. He hopes Steve won’t be free on Sunday. He needs more time to prepare, though he’s not sure what exactly to do to prepare.

Steve – awkward artist: Sunday works, what time?

Bucky: Any time. 1?

Steve – awkward artist: ok I’ll send my address

And so there it is. Steve sets his phone down and lets out a deep breath. He falls back onto the couch, threading his fingers through his hair and staring up at the ceiling. “Last chance!” Natasha says from the kitchen. “If you want popcorn you have to say something  _now_  or you are not getting any because I do not share!”

“I’m good,” Steve sighs. He isn’t in the mood for movie night but his bedroom is the living room and that’s where they have the TV.

“Sam?” Natasha calls as the microwave beeps.

Sam glances up from where he’s sitting on the floor, back against the couch. “Popcorn is always better stolen from someone else’s bowl,” he says.

Steve nods a little, doing his very best to act normal, casual, game for this movie night thing, when all he wants is to lay down under the covers and feel sorry for himself for a few hours until he falls asleep. He hasn’t been doing enough of the ‘normal grieving thing;’ he had to make the funeral plans, then he had to move all of his stuff, and he was still working the whole time, refusing to take off even though his boss offered to move some shifts around so he wouldn’t have to work for a few weeks. Steve can’t afford to have grieving time, and even now, he should probably be sleeping so he isn’t tired for his morning shift.

Natasha comes in and sits down next to him. “Okay, gang, let’s do this shit,” she says, picking up the remote and hitting play on the Redbox DVD they’d rented,  _Wild_. Natasha had said some very inappropriate things about Reese Witherspoon at the Redbox kiosk that made the family standing behind them waiting to rent the Boxtrolls very uncomfortable. (Namely, “I’d like to make an ice cream sundae on her boobs with her nipples as the cherries.”  _Jesus, Nat._ )

The film starts playing and Steve does his best to actually pay attention, focusing on the plotline and the actress and the cinematography. All are good, especially the cinematography, and he’s thinking about how he would like to be a cinematographer as a fallback art career because he’s always enjoyed photography and he loves movies that are shot really well, and he could get used to living in Los Angeles if he had to, when the mom in the movie gets cancer. Of all the goddamn things in the world.

Steve stands up in a jerky motion, not realizing what he’s doing, and Sam and Natasha glance at each other. Natasha hits the pause button.

“Oops,” Sam whispers, and Steve’s headed into the bathroom, the only private room in the whole apartment. He sits down against the cool tiled wall, draws his legs up into his chest, hugging himself, shaking. His mind feels like a vortex and in the middle is the central pain, and something he wants desperately to ask his mother is if the pain will ever go away. When he was younger, enduring the pain of some illness or the other, he always asked her if the pain would go away.  _“Yes, Stevie, the pain will go away very soon, I promise. Mommy will take it away.”_

She’d taken it, alright, all of it, and put it upon herself, and it killed her. All the pain of Steve’s life had accumulated to kill his mother and the guilt and fear wracked his body with sobs that felt like they were ripping from his chest.

He hears a whispered argument through the door but he can’t make out what they’re saying. He tries to still his sobs but his fingertips are tingling and he’s lightheaded. His chest heaves from the inside out.

There’s a knock and someone tests the knob. He didn’t lock it, so the door opens and Sam pokes his head around the door. “Hey, mind if I join you?” he asks. Steve shakes his head no. He knows he has no choice.

Sam steps inside and closes the door behind him. He sits across from Steve, leaning against the cupboard beneath the sink. “I’m sorry about that, man, we didn’t realize that was gonna happen. I thought it was just gonna be some movie about this crazy chick hiking away from her problems.”

“Maybe I should take a hike,” Steve says, not looking at Sam but rather, to the knot in the wood of the cupboard door, just to the left of his best friend’s face.

“If you do, you’d better be prepared because Nat and I are coming along,” Sam replies. “I already have hiking boots actually.”

“You do?” Steve raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking to meet Sam’s.

“Oh yeah,” Sam says, “hiking is a Big Ticket Deal in Maine. One day you’re seriously gonna come up and I’ll take you hiking at Acadia.”

Steve nods. They’ve been saying this since they met in freshman year. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’m in.” The vortex is still spinning in his chest and he looks down at his bare feet on the floor as he tries to hold in his sobs.

Sam sighs. “I know it hurts,” he says. “And I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. But Nat and I are here, always. No matter what time it is. No matter what we’re doing. Nat’s already making you tea.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just rests his chin on his knees, trying to breathe deeply.

Sam scoots over so he’s next to Steve now, puts his hand on Steve’s back, and rubs it soothingly. “It’ll be okay, man,” he says softly. “It’ll get easier.”

Steve isn’t so sure. He just can’t imagine that.

\--

Sunday. 11:05am.

Bucky rolls over in bed and shuts off the snooze on his phone alarm. He rolls back to face the ceiling and rubs his eyes, yawning. He was out pretty late last night at a gig, and it had gone well and afterward they got drinks and toasted their music career. He isn’t sure if that was bad luck but it had felt good at the time. Now, the late night doesn’t feel so good, stumbling into his room at 4 in the morning and falling onto the bed, taking awhile to stop his thoughts from spinning around his head before falling asleep. It was a damn good night, one of those shows that reminds him why he plays music and why he wanted to be in a band, why he risked everything to drop out of school and do this. His fingers were flying across the fret board and his solos went great and he felt like the crowd was really connecting with them, and even more than that, the band was connecting with each other. Sometimes he and Todd have arguments about the direction they should go in – Bucky thinks their original stuff should be more serious and their covers should lead into that, while Todd thinks that their covers should be lighter to contrast their original stuff. Sometimes in the writing room – which is just the dining area they never use to eat in – Mark, the singer, and Alex, the drummer, have disagreements about lyrics that end in cutlery being thrown around and Todd and Bucky ducking out into the kitchen.

It’s interesting to bring together four people and see how it works, like a social experiment. They’re all very different from one another. Todd is almost never serious but sometimes comes up with songs that make everyone stare at him in awe. He once wrote the lyric “The scar you left on my heart won’t heal in time, I know because I carve it deeper every night” and nobody really knew what to say about that. If it had come from Mark there would be no surprise. Mark is one of those guys who never stops getting his heart broken by women, but who bounces back and seems to have a new love every other week and a heartbreak in between. Alex is a trans man who has some really deep shit to say about how his family threw him out when he was fifteen and he had to survive on his own, squatting at friends’ houses and in shelters until he met Todd, who let him live with him until he got on his feet on his own. They’ve lived together ever since, but now Bucky and Mark live there too. Alex’s lyrics waffle between “And it hurts like you’d never believe that you didn’t even watch me leave” and “I once fucked a man where my dog could see and trust me, girl, the dog liked it more than me.”

They’re all different but they all love music, and some nights that all comes together beautifully under the stage lights and it just  _works_  and Bucky feels like everything is going to work out for them and the band is going to succeed and life will be great.

Then in the morning reality hits and he realizes that he has to model naked for a stranger who’s friends with one of his co-workers. He rolls out of bed and goes into the bathroom to wash his face and then stare at himself. He has some stubble growing on his chin but he kind of likes it. He fiddles with the idea of shaving, though, because maybe he wants to look his best for this project. What if Steve is really hot? And what if Bucky’s unshaven face is the only thing standing in the way of them fucking?

 _No, the awkwardness of the entire situation will probably also stand in the way,_ he tells himself as he brushes his teeth. It occurs to him that this could be like a romcom thing, but romcoms don’t happen in real life. There’s nothing comedic about romance and nothing romantic about comedy, not in the real world. In the real world, Natasha is an asshole and life is horribly awkward.

Bucky goes back into his room and puts on his black the Band t-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and black Converse with flecks of paint on them from when he and some friends made signs to go to a rally urging for action on climate change.

He’s the only one up and that’s how he likes it. He wants to slip out the door before anyone can ask him where he’s going. Explaining to his friends what he’s doing would make the entire thing much worse. They would say something about how this is the first step to becoming a stripper.

By the time Bucky leaves his apartment, he’s so full of mixed feelings that his brain feels like a Jackson Pollock painting. On one hand, this will be interesting and he likes interesting experiences. But on the other hand, this will probably be awkward and embarrassing, even more so because he’s already decided that’s what it’s going to be. He wonders how many people have been desperate enough to model naked for strangers. He reminds himself that he isn’t desperate, he’s just too nice. And when he agreed he didn’t  _know_  it was a nude thing. And since when was he so insecure about his body?

Since he couldn’t fall back on his skills in bed to distract the person looking at him. Nope, this time it was going to be all on his body, and Steve would be looking at every inch of it and judging every flaw and probably even people like Marilyn Monroe would be a little bit nervous about this, right?

 _Fuck me,_  he mutters as he climbs the stairs to Steve’s floor. Checking to ensure that he’s not too early and praying that Natasha isn’t there, he knocks on the door.

\--

Sunday. 9:27am. Central Park.

Steve is holding the book his mom got for him shortly before she died. It’s a book about God’s promises and honestly, Steve isn’t even sure he wants to open it. He isn’t sure he believes in God anymore. He isn’t sure he _wants_ to.

But the thought of his mom watching from Heaven or wherever gets him to open the book and look at the table of contents. Part 4 includes chapters on ‘What to do when…trouble hits you, you are sick, you need money, someone close to you dies.’ He sighs and turns to page 95. That’s probably why she bought him the book, after all. She knew he’d do this. She knew he would read it even if he didn’t want to.

> “What to do when someone close to you dies.
> 
> The Lord comforts his people and will have pity on those who suffer. Isaiah 49:13b.
> 
> Those who are sad now are happy, because God will comfort them. Matthew 5:4.
> 
> He comforts us every time we have trouble, so when”

Steve stops reading and throws the book down. This isn’t helping, it isn’t fucking helping. He pulls his sketchpad out of his bag and lays down on his stomach in the grass, beginning to sketch a scene, barely thinking. It’s him, when he was little, sitting in bed, clutching his teddy bear to his chest while his mother sits next to him, holding a book. She has a peaceful smile on her face. He draws the details of the room, and then above the two of them, above the ceiling, he draws a big question mark. Is there anything up there? Is God actually looking down at them, or does he just not care?

Steve thinks he probably just doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that Steve was once happy and he won’t be again, at least not uncomplicatedly so. He’ll always have to deal with this pain of his mother’s death, and that sucks.

He draws more pictures of himself and his mother and wonders if this is a healthy way of dealing with grief. His mom had urged him to go to therapy even before she died, and he had, a few times, and he was considering going again but hadn’t had the time or money. He was too busy working out the details of his life and what to do when someone else’s ends. And now he’s busy with school and work and he doesn’t feel like talking about his feelings,  he just really doesn’t.

Eventually, he decides this _is_ unhealthy behavior, and he gets up. He has to get back to set up for Bucky coming over anyway. Natasha and Sam have both agreed to be out of the apartment for the duration. Steve realizes it’s going to be incredibly awkward, but it _will_ take his mind off of everything, and he really needs that. So he’s kind of looking forward to it.

When he gets back, he sets up his easel, takes out his charcoal and pencils, clears the sofa of his sheets and blanket in case Bucky wants to sit for today’s pose. He gets out two glasses of water with ice and then feels pathetic and dumps them into the sink. He sits on the couch and taps his knees with his fingers. He turns on the TV but finds nothing to watch so he turns it off. He picks up his book on art theory and pages through it but can’t concentrate.

When there’s a knock on the door, he’s so relieved he breathes out an audible sigh and goes to answer it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you'd prefer longer chapters or shorter, but more frequent, chapters.  
> EDIT: So I'm going to be making the chapters longer, at least the length of the first chapter if not longer, and I'll try to get one up each week! I'm starting my job on Monday which means I won't have as much time, but I'll definitely write a chapter a week, if not more than that, because once I get going it's usually pretty difficult to reign myself in.


	3. Certain Things are Very Awkward and Certain Other Things are Very Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took an age to get out, they really will be more regular, I've just had some trips and work has been making me crazy but now that I'm in a routine and I'll be around for the rest of the month, I'll hopefully have another chapter out quicker! Also the smut is coming (ha ha) but first the tension needs to build!

Sunday. 12:57pm. Steve’s apartment.

Steve Rogers is immediately short of breath when he opens the door to the dark-haired, light-eyed, tall boy with the nervous smile. Because Natasha had said Bucky was hot but she didn’t say he was this hot. He’s not just hot, he’s like a god or something. He looks like he’s just walked down off Mount Olympus and any second there will be servants clad in white holding grapes and playing harps rounding the corner to join them, and he’s about to shed his clothes right in Steve’s bedroom/living room, and Steve’s not prepared for _this_. He’d prepared for a level 6, maybe a level 7, out of 10, someone attractive but not so completely beyond hot that he’s unable to _function_ , let alone draw him inch for inch. Bucky's a solid 10. Out of 10.  _I'm screwed._

 _Show him inside you complete idiot!_ He steps aside and gestures for Bucky to come in, then realizes he still hasn’t said anything. “Uh, hi, I’m Steve, thanks again for doing this!”

Bucky smiles. His hands are shoved in his pockets and he wonders what the hell he’ll do with them when he has no pockets anymore, because he’ll be naked. _Fuck_. “Yeah it’s no problem at all,” he says with a shrug.

Steve feels like he should say something before they just get to it, but he can’t think of anything other than, “Are you thirsty?” He regrets how he worded it a second after it’s out of his mouth but of course it’s too late then and he just internally sighs.

Bucky shakes his head. “No, thanks, just had orange juice with breakfast but thanks.”

Steve nods. “Sure. Okay.” He goes over to the easel where he has his paper and charcoal. “So, basically, this should only take probably a half hour to an hour, depending on the pose and detail. So…" He trails off. Why was he not provided with a script? Why did he not write one himself? "I’ve never actually done this before.”

Bucky nods, not sure where to stand. This is somehow even more awkward than he’d imagined it would be, and he’s still fully clothed. “Well I'm a professional naked model so...” he says, hovering in front of the easel, smirking, but it comes off as more of a grimace.

After a laugh to acknowledge the sarcasm but not feeling like getting into a sarcastic conversation, Steve says, “So how about you just, um, take off your clothes and then we’ll pick a pose that’s comfortable? Does that sound good?”

“Sure.” Bucky glances down at himself and considers asking if he can go into the bathroom or the next room to change, but that’s stupid. He can’t hide anything when he’s standing here naked, and he can’t hide anything now. He takes a deep breath and is hyper aware of Steve’s eyes on him, though when he glances up Steve at least has the decency to look away politely like he isn’t watching Bucky.

But of course he's watching Bucky, Bucky’s fucking gorgeous and Steve kind of can’t wait for him to get his clothes off. He feels like this is cheating – the first time he gets a guy to take all his clothes off for him (when he gave the handjob the guy was still wearing his white Abercrombie & Fitch collared t-shirt, and Steve himself was fully clothed, and it was awkward when the guy came because they didn’t really know what to do with the come so Steve just went into the bathroom that adjoined to the guy’s bedroom and got a ton of toilet paper and wiped it off his dick and it was really kind of disappointing), and he’s paying him to do it. It's sad as hell, even moreso when you throw in the fact that his mom just died.

Bucky takes off his t-shirt and throws it onto the couch, then squats down to untie his black high-top Chucks. He kicks them off and considers for a moment before taking off his socks. He’s about to joke about leaving the socks on but then he realizes he actually doesn’t want to joke around, he doesn’t want to linger here in this state of undressing, he just really wants to get this entire thing over with.

And Steve’s trying hard to not stare right now, telling himself that he’ll see Bucky naked soon enough and then _everything_ will be right there for him to look at and he won’t have to feel weird about it because he’s drawing him. But then he’s wondering if maybe Bucky really doesn’t want to do this. He seems uncomfortable, but maybe Steve’s just projecting his own discomfort onto him. There are so many confusing things about this particular social interaction and there are absolutely no manuals on how to deal with this. Steve wonders if _this_ is what Aubrey had in mind when she assigned this project – standing awkwardly in your living room while some guy you don’t know takes off his clothes really slowly and you try not to blush or stutter but really this guy is so hot in the worst way. Maybe he’s interpreted the project wrong, or maybe it was an unspoken rule that he was supposed to choose someone he wasn’t going to be insanely attracted to. _Fuck._

By the time Bucky has taken off all of his clothes except for his underwear, he’s established that the five places he could run or hide in this room are: the cupboard under the tv (tight squeeze), the refrigerator (another tight squeeze, but yummier), jump out the window (there might be a fire escape?), the door (would it be undignified to run into the hallway in only underwear?), and one of the bedrooms or the bathroom that’s connected to this room (Steve would find him easily). These are terrible ideas so he says _fuck it_  loudly in his head and takes off his underwear too, and he wishes, weirdly, that his dick were hard so it would be a little more impressive to look at, like it is when he’s with a girl and they’re making out and he gets a little hard before he even takes his clothes off…

This isn’t that kind of situation, though, he reminds himself, and tries to believe it. But Steve is really much more attractive than he’d thought he would be – he’d figured he had to be a little weird to want to actually do this project, but then, Bucky needs reminding sometimes that some people will actually do projects assigned to them in college if the subject is important to them. Politics has never been as important to him as music. Art to Steve is music to Bucky and for music Bucky would do anything.

Steve tries not to stare down at Bucky’s dick, and it’s just hanging there and it’s not really supposed to be sexy right now but _damn_ because there’s that V with his hips and the way his body curves into it is just a little bit too much and his pants are feeling a little tighter than they were a few moments ago, so Steve moves behind his easel, facing the couch. “Do you-do you maybe want to be sitting down for the first one just to be comfortable?” he asks, cursing his stutter.

“Okay.” Bucky perches on the edge of the couch like he’s visiting the queen. He even folds his hands over his knees.

“You can relax,” Steve says hesitantly, picking up a piece of charcoal.

Bucky remains tense. _How the fuck am I supposed to relax when I’m modeling naked for some dude to draw me?_ This is easily, _easily_ the weirdest, most uncomfortable thing he’s ever done, and he’s thinking seriously of telling Steve he can’t do this when Steve starts to ask him questions.

“So, Bucky,” he starts as he presses the charcoal to the paper, glancing up at him. He knows he needs to get him to relax, and really he’s feeling guilty because this weird situation _is_ his fault. “What do you do? Natasha didn’t tell me that much about you except that you work at Starbucks, but you must do other things too.”

Bucky nods and says, “I’m in a band, I play guitar and do backup vocals sometimes.”

“That’s cool, I play a little piano,” Steve replies, still drawing him and looking at him occasionally. He’s drawn lots of people before so this is second nature – at least it is while he’s sticking to the head, which he’s opted to draw first because he doesn’t want to think about Bucky’s body just yet. And by that, of course, he _wants_ to look at it, touch it, press up against it, _oh God._

“I played trumpet in band in high school.” Bucky laughs a little. “Jesus. That was a long time ago. I was a nerd back then.”

“I’m still a nerd.” Steve laughs. “I like school. But I’m going to art school and I like art so that’s why. What’s your band called?”

“Depends who you talk to and when,” Bucky says. “We change it a lot. It was called Fusion of the Empty Goose for a little while.”

“Feg,” Steve responds with a little laugh.

“Feg?” Bucky repeats. “Is that art school slang for something?”

Steve laughs harder. “No, Fusion of the Empty Goose. F-E-G. FEG.”

“Oh. Jesus.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair then realizes he isn’t supposed to move. “Shit. Sorry. This pose is shitty.”

“It’s okay you can change it, I’m still on your head.”

So Bucky readjusts until one hand rests on his thigh and the other arm is slung across the back of the couch. He may or may not tighten his abs and suck in his stomach.

“That’s good,” Steve murmurs as he glances up. Bucky just blinks at him, afraid to move. He isn’t sure how much leeway he has here, not having any experience whatsoever in modeling of this sort. In high school he helped his friend with her photography project and made dramatic poses in a cornfield. Even that had been less awkward than this, though by a slim margin. They’d also done photoshoots for the band, which was fun because they felt kind of like rock stars, posing with and without their instruments in various locations throughout the city, in front of graffiti’d walls and cool cars they pretended were theirs until the owners returned (usually with some choice words). That had definitely been better than this. But both of those experiences were with photography and this is totally different. This feels like a portrait or something, like he’s Henry VIII being immortalized on canvas minus the flamboyant outfit. Minus  _any_ outfit.

Bucky watches Steve, which results in too much eye contact to feel comfortable to him. He loves Steve’s eyes and the way his thick-framed oversized glasses, which he’s put on to draw, make his nose look so adorable. He’s small, really thin and it makes Bucky wonder what’s wrong with him. Maybe he was born premature. Maybe it’s genetic. Whatever the reason, it’s part of what makes Steve a summation of adorable.

Bucky’s mind starts to wander a little. It’s been ten minutes at least, though in reality maybe it’s just been five. When he’s bored he can never properly judge how much time has passed. Some things make it go faster, though, because hour-long sets seem to last five minutes, but when he’s got nothing to do, or he’s waiting for the subway, or standing around outside a bar waiting for his friends to arrive, time slows to a slow-ticking crawl.

That’s what it’s doing now. _Tick…tock…tick…tock…you are going to die of boredom naked on this couch…_

Sometimes when you’re bored, your mind goes into self-destruct mode because at least that’s slightly interesting. It starts imagining what would happen if you jumped out the window, then imagines every freefalling second of your decent and your splattered ending on the pavement. Or maybe it imagines the most outrageous things you could say in that particular moment – Bucky could say, “I’m really wondering if your dick is surprisingly large, but I can’t decide. Show me?”

This happens to Bucky now. And with that he’s picturing Steve’s entire naked body, dick included. In Bucky’s imagination it’s hard but he’s still painting Bucky, and suddenly someone’s feeding Bucky grapes and they’re on an island and there are dancing girls in leis and grass skirts and coconut bras and Steve’s – surprisingly large – penis is so hard and…

Now Bucky’s a little hard himself. And he doesn’t know anything about the drawing process but he figures Steve must be getting there sometime soon, and he’ll notice, and shit. Oops. “Sorry,” he finds himself saying, and then he curses very, very loudly in his mind for his utter stupidity. _‘Sorry?’_

Steve glances up with his eyebrows knit together above the bridge of his nose, his light eyes stormy with confusion, having been drawn from the clouds of concentration. “What?”

“Nothing. I just.” Bucky nods his chin down to indicate his dick.

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Oh! No! It’s fine. It happens.” But Bucky can see Steve’s mind racing, probably wondering why Bucky’s hard and if it has anything to do with him. And he’s right. Steve is wondering that, and frantically starting to draw faster, because this is embarrassing and making him feel just a little too hopeful. There’s no way that’s really why – Bucky was probably picturing him as a stripper or his favorite model, just to pass the time. “Sorry this is probably boring.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, but he’s trying hard to think of all the unsexy things he can picture. His grandmother. His grandmother’s feet. His grandmother’s feet in a bucket of dead fish. Dead _bloody_ fish. And now he can distinctly smell that and he feels a little nauseous and certainly unsettled.

A few moments go by. Steve has reached Bucky’s stomach and he dreads drawing his still-erect penis, but he has to. And maybe it would add something to the drawing if he drew it hard…or maybe he should awkwardly skirt the subject and draw it flaccid…

“So,” Bucky says, maybe sensing Steve’s awkwardness, or maybe just having enough of the silence. “I feel like maybe we should talk a little, you know? Get to know each other? How did you and Natasha meet?”

“We met freshman year orientation, at this stupid mixer,” Steve says. “But you had to do this speed dating thing, you know, where you go from person to person and talk for two minutes about a topic they shout out when you switch. So our topic was horses, but Nat starts flirting with me, and I thought the entire thing was ridiculous and the fact that _she_ was flirting with me made me,” his eyes flick up to meet Bucky’s, “a little nervous. So I laughed. And then she pretended to take offense and I apologized and then she laughed and a friendship was formed.” He’s now drawing Bucky’s cock, and it’s making him hard too. _Oh God._ If he'd needed any confirmation that he was into guys, this was definitely it. “You?”

“I work at Starbucks with her,” Bucky says, like it’s obvious, which it is. She must have mentioned that. But Steve is clearly a little nervous, and that’s cute, so he’s smiling too.

“Right, duh,” Steve mutters, and Bucky can see he’s preoccupied. For some reason that makes him grow even harder. _Shit._

“So what about your family?” Bucky asks, trying to distract himself. If he knows about a guy’s family, about his alcoholic uncle or his grandma with the missing teeth, then he’s maybe not going to be so turned on by him. He’s not sure this will work – he’s had girlfriends he knew all sorts of things about. Once, he still got hard at Thanksgiving, sitting right across from her WWII-veteran grandfather, when she stroked his thigh. She’d known exactly what she was doing to him and it was like a game. He just wanted to make a good impression.

“Well I don’t really have much family,” Steve says, and as soon as he says it Bucky feels guilty as hell for asking.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.” This is kind of working, though.

“Well you’re the naked one,” Steve says, thinking it might help Bucky relax if he feels like Steve is also naked, but in a soul-bearing rather than flesh-bearing way.

“I guess I am,” Bucky agrees, “but that doesn’t mean you have to start tellin’ me about your…sad shit.” He’s never been one for comforting words.

Steve laughs a little, though he manages not to smile much. “Don’t worry, I’m almost done,” he says as a way of changing the topic. Bucky wonders what happened to his family. Dead? Gone? Left? Why?

Bucky bites his lip, staring off into space. Steve’s almost done but Bucky’s _just_ starting to feel comfortable with this situation. Maybe he’ll get to the part where he can start making jokes or teasing Steve about something. Maybe that’ll happen next session, and it won’t be so horrible. If he can just stop radiating awkwardness everything will be fine. And Bucky’s not really one to be awkward, so this is out of character, but so is the situation of modeling naked while a stranger draws you. Everything about it is weird and he feels weird and maybe this is why, as Steve starts putting the finishing touches on the drawing, Bucky says, “So if I’m naked and you’re paying me, does that make me a prostitute?”

Steve’s eyes snap from the easel to Bucky’s face, full of surprise. “Uh. I think something sexual has to be involved…”

“I stripped. You’re enjoying my naked body, or at least the act of drawing it. Sounds like prostitution. Maybe it’s a little unusual but lots of people are into weird things.” For some reason he kind of doesn’t want to leave. Yeah, maybe he’s incredibly uncomfortable, but he’s also entertained and what’s he going home to? Nothing but binge watches of Breaking Bad with his bandmates.

Steve just stares at him, and he can’t tell if Bucky is kidding or not. “Do you want me to not pay you…?” he asks, and Bucky jolts a little, right out of his position.

“No! I was joking!” he exclaims, and it becomes clear that he’s really in this for the money, which makes another thing clear: Bucky is completely broke.

“Oh. Okay. Because you know it’s no skin off my back if I don’t pay you…” He’s stepping back and just looking at the painting now, smirking slightly so Bucky knows he's joking around. “Just so you know.”

“You mean you don’t live to give other people money?” Bucky asks, standing up now and stretching, since he’s broken the pose anyway.

“Surprisingly not,” Steve says. “Do you? You know a lot about prostitution.”

“I know made-up shit about prostitution,” Bucky corrects. “I have never set foot in a strip club.” This isn’t 100% true, but it almost is. Bucky fancies himself too much of a gentleman for that kind of thing, whether he really is or not.

Steve laughs. “Okay, well, climb off your high horse and go put your clothes back on,” he says. He’s having a lot of trouble keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face now that he isn’t drawing him and his eyes can wander wherever they want and his mind can focus on whichever part of Bucky’s body – his delicious body – and Jesus did he really just think the word _delicious_? – it wants to, and oh it’s being cruel. Bucky’s chest, and his arms, and his abs, _fuck please put your clothes on._

Bucky heads into the bathroom and emerges a few moments later fully dressed. He looks weird with clothes on, Steve decides, and he understands what the Europeans mean when they talk about people looking more natural naked. He’s not heading to a nude beach anytime soon but it has validity especially when it comes to people like Bucky.

Bucky smirks, and his confidence bordering on cockiness has returned with his clothes. “So, same time next week good?” he asks. And Steve's relieved. At least he isn't asking to never do this again. He seems no worse for the wear, either, so maybe everything will be better next time. Less awkward. Maybe they'll joke around. Maybe they'll talk more. He will definitely get to look at Bucky's body more. At least this is a distraction from how shitty things are right now.

Steve nods, swallows, smiles. “Sounds good to me,” he says, _delicious, delicious, delicious, what the hell?_

“See you then!” And Bucky feels a grimace of awkwardness, shoves it down, _you’re wearing clothes now Barnes_ _everything’s normal again,_ and heads for the door.

Steve wants to kiss him goodbye. He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Encouragement is always motivation, if you're enjoying this please leave a quick comment


	4. Steve Has a Dream and Bucky Has a Donut

Sunday. 7:07pm.

It’s very hot in New York City in the summer. Steve grew up in the city, so he knows this; Sam, having grown up in Maine and experienced the relative coolness of Maine summers (but having to endure the bitter cold of winters up north), isn’t used to it yet. He’s much more prepared for the chill that settles over the city in the winter that has people rushing from one building to another, bundled up in coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. The summer inspires similar behavior because people still don’t enjoy being outside much (actually, they only enjoy it in the spring, really, when the warmth in the air is a novelty and they flock to the parks to enjoy the fact that they only have to wear t-shirts and shorts, or summer sundresses that look out of place in April). People rush from one air-conditioned building to the next. But tonight, the goal is to be outside, and so despite the 90-degree heat, Steve, Sam, and Natasha are outside.

Sam decided that he was in charge of helping Steve with his grief, and because Natasha’s never been good with that kind of thing, she’s letting him. Steve had insisted that he didn’t actually need anyone’s help, but his idea of dealing with it is sitting on the couch drawing picture after picture of his childhood (even though his childhood was decidedly sad), which Sam finds obsessive and unhealthy. He’s decided that what Steve needs is to be outside taking in the fresh, if stifling, air. And he and Natasha are exceptionally good friends, so they’re outside taking it in with him.

And they’re actually enjoying their Sunday evening. The city gets kind of weird on Sundays after dinner – everyone starts rushing around a little more. Sunday mornings are very slow, and the day escalates in speed until the evening, when everyone is rushing to finish their freedom activities before they have to go to bed to get up and begin the work, or school, week.

Steve likes this, and he finds his fingers twitching because he wants to somehow draw the feeling. He gets this urge often, to draw distinct feelings that he notices other people having. He typically sits on the sidelines, as much as his mother had encouraged him to just _join in_ on whatever other people were doing. In school he hadn’t been the most popular; he was a fairly obvious target, being skinny and riddled with health problems, especially when he was younger. What he lacked in nuanced social skills he made up for with odd quirks – such as, in the eyes of his fellow middle and high schoolers, passion for art and history and other ‘boring’ things. He never really minded being on the outside, but now, walking between his two closest friends, he knows he wouldn’t get through this without them. He needs them and he isn’t afraid to admit it. He isn’t afraid to lean on them, if only just a little. Just when it gets hard.

And if he’s being honest, it’s always pretty hard. If left to his own devices, he’d think only about this fact and how the sadness might go on forever, and if it does, then what? What will he do with himself tomorrow, and the next day, and so on until it’s finally his turn to go?

He stops this train of thought just as Natasha reaches across him to push Sam, and Steve falls back a half-step to allow them room to flirt. The ranks are switched up so it becomes Sam, then Natasha, then Steve, and Steve’s content to listen to them bicker

(“It doesn’t matter if we leave at 8, the previews will last until 8:30 anyway!”

“But I don’t get out of _class_ until 8, do you want to sit next to an unshowered ballerina for a two hour movie? I really don’t think so.”

“You do smell like shit after class.”

“You’re very kind to me, Samuel.”

“You just said it! I’m agreeing!”

“Women don’t want to be agreed with when they’re saying self-deprecating things.”

“Women are confusing as fuck.”)

Steve doesn’t even realize he’s about to say something, but he blurts out, as they turn a corner, “Bucky’s hot. Thanks Nat.” The tone is half-sarcastic, but half-serious. Bucky is a blessing and a curse, with regards to his hotness. His presence is definitely a blessing, because it’s a distraction _and_ an easy A. Or at least, Steve hopes so.

“Isn’t he?” Natasha’s attention is immediately all his, and this is one of those truths of grief: everyone will treat you differently whether they mean to or not. They feel bad for you. They can’t help it, and you can’t blame them, because you are truly something to be pitied. They’re just glad it didn’t happen to them, and they’re hoping that if they play their cards right, and treat you well, no one they love will be taken from them.

Steve feels acutely sad all of a sudden, but he’s embarked on this conversation so he has to continue it: “He is. It’s awful.”

“Is that the closest you’ve been yet to a penis?” Sam asks, peering at Steve from past Natasha, and Steve feels like he’s more serious than he should be.

“No!” he exclaims defensively, and his tone ensures that whatever he says now, Sam and Natasha won’t believe it. “I have been naked with a guy before.” So maybe it’s a lie, or almost one, but they wouldn’t have believed him if he told the honest truth so he may as well stretch it.

It sits oddly in his throat for a moment after he’s said it, and the oddest sensation of guilt creeps into his chest, just below the lie: if he hadn’t lied, his mother could be here still. Even though the lie happened after she died. Even though it was only a half lie. Even though. _Even though._

Sam can see that he’s distracted by himself so he quickly laughs. “Okay, sure, big guy,” he says, and it’s affectionate and manages not to offend.

“I may seem like a twelve year old with a weirdly deep voice but I’ve been around the block,” Steve says. He doesn’t know how he finds it in himself to joke. Chock it up to strength or ignorance, either one, maybe both?

“So how is Bucky, at modeling?” Natasha asks. “He may have agreed a little…prematurely. Before gathering all the, uh, pertinent information.”

Steve gapes.

“I got him to agree before telling him that he would be…sans clothes.” She shrugs. “Didn’t feel important to mention until after he’d said yes.”

“Must be a hell of a guy to keep a verbal promise he made without the keystone of information,” Sam comments. “Sounds perfect for you, Steve.”

Steve’s blushing hard. Natasha doesn’t mention that she also guilted Bucky into it. She doesn’t think that’s really pertinent, either, not now or ever. What Steve doesn’t know can’t hurt him; Steve hates to feel like people are going out of their way to help him, but what he doesn’t understand is that people can’t _help_ it. She feels protective of him while also realizing that really, in the end, he doesn’t need protecting. He _can_ do this on his own; the important thing is, he shouldn’t have to.

“He’s just a little awkward,” Steve says. “I can’t blame him. Obviously. I’d be awkward too. Probably more awkward than him. He shouldn’t be, anyway.” Because Bucky’s hot and probably pretty experienced too. Maybe not experienced when it comes to weirdass things like this, but experienced in the art of being naked with others present, certainly.

“Lots of people probably would be,” Natasha says wisely. “I mean, it’s fuckin’ weird. You drawing him. I get that you didn’t make up the assignment or anything but you can agree that it’s a weird assignment.”

“I think it’s interesting,” Steve says with a little shrug. “We’ll see when I’m done if you can tell a difference from how things progress beginning to end. I don’t know if they will. I’m not sure how I could make a difference. It might just be awkward throughout.” He hopes not, though.

“That would suck,” Sam says, then steers them toward a milkshake shop. “You have to promise us you’ll at least _try_ to use this wonderful opportunity that the good Lord Himself has dropped into your lap, probably literally, to have…intimacy.” He wiggles his eyebrows, leans in, and if his eyes drift to Nat then it’s not on purpose and Steve pretends not to notice.

“I’m not _completely_ virginal!” Steve exclaims, shoving him through the door Nat’s holding open as if for that exact purpose. “We’re not discussing this again.”

\--

Tuesday. 10:23pm.

Bucky Barnes is reveling in the fact that his friends don’t know about his new…job. He’d like to keep it that way for the duration. As soon as it’s over he’ll cleanse his mind with as much alcohol as it takes so he himself never has to think of the experience.

Even if he wouldn’t have a problem with remembering Steve himself. Steve Rogers may be a little on the puny side, but Bucky can’t say he’s never been attracted to a guy like that. He kind of likes twinky guys; but that word doesn’t really fit Steve well. He’s probably not interested in men at all. He isn’t flamboyant in the least, and just because he has really well-defined eyelashes doesn’t make him gay, it just makes him beautiful.

The fact that Bucky noticed that. Well. It proves a problem. The little details about Steve are the best. His hands were veiny and Bucky can’t help but picture them around his dick, or reaching inside him… _Oh God._ This is bad. He has to shake it somehow before the next session, because if he’s already created these images for his mind – which hates him – to call up when he really does not want his dick to get hard, then he’s completely screwed. And probably not literally.

All of these thoughts have pushed focus right off the stage, so the Bucky that’s sweating under the lights in an underground club in front of 30-some gathered people is not the Bucky his bandmates want. He messes up his third chord, and it’s only the second song of the opening set. He can feel the annoyance of Mark in particular, who has a girl in the audience he really wants to impress. Bucky can already hear echoes of what Mark will say when they break: _“How the fuck am I supposed to get laid if she thinks our band sounds like a cat in the alley, huh? That’s what we sound like, Bucky! Your chords are shit! Fucking fix it!”_

It isn’t that Mark isn’t a great guy. It’s just that… Well. The jury’s actually still out on whether Mark is a great guy or not. Bucky likes him though. He’s a good wingman when Bucky needs it, not that he ever really does. When he isn’t sitting naked on a stranger’s couch, Bucky can be very smooth and charming. It’s a skill that proves itself useful in almost all situations until he really, _really_ needs it – see: aforementioned naked situation – when it completely vanishes.

And he’s off on a tangent again, and he’s going to mess up more. He remembers just in time to press one of the foot pedals, and he glances up at the audience, who he almost forgot was there. There’s no adrenaline tonight; he’s off, and he doesn’t know how to get back _on_. He goes through the motions for the rest of the song, pushing intrusive thoughts (about those _hands_ , those eyelashes, the fucking eyes themselves, oh God) out of his mind. This is utterly ridiculous. Steve isn’t even into guys. He definitely is not. Because what are the chances?

His mind won’t hold still. He’s got it pinned by the shoulders but it wriggles on the dirty stage floor and he’s trying so hard to just fucking _play the guitar_ but he’s completely distracted. By some artist he doesn’t even know, and the memories of a shitty apartment, and-

“Hey guys we’re gonna take five!” Mark’s saying, and Bucky doesn’t remember ending the song but he’ll assume he didn’t do it right if they’re taking five after the second song. Or was it the third…?

They all walk off the stage in awkward silence, and people start talking again – or at least, they continue the conversations they were already having but now they don’t have to yell to be heard over the band. The DJ starts playing House of the Rising Sun over the speaker system.

“What was that, Barnes?” Mark demands once they’re back in the little green room behind the stage. “Like what actually are you doing? You’re murdering me. Fucking murdering this whole band! I’m trying to get laid. You’re killing it. You are killing her boner for me.”

Bucky doesn’t even point out the anatomic inaccuracy of the statement. That’s how guilty he feels.

“Yeah, Buck,” Todd adds, because Mark, eloquently, has said it all; Alex thirds it, and Bucky groans.

“I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ , guys, I’m really sorry.”

“You never mess up!” Alex says, throwing his hands up in the air. “So why now? Why’d you fuck up now? What’s up? If there’s something wrong we can cut you some slack but if not I’ll beat you to a pulp if you fuck up again.” Alex wouldn’t hurt a fly but Bucky gulps anyway. He’s nervous. His bandmates are harsh but he deserves it. They’re counting on him; they all need to give 150% if they want to get known. Nobody likes a band that sounds great only _most_ of the time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m really sorry, guys, for real. I know I’m fucking up and there’s no excuse, no, so beat me to a pulp but leave my fingers intact and I’ll do better, I promise.” He looks at each of them individually, imploringly.

And they all nod, slowly, one by one, and file back out onto the stage. The rest of the sets go better, and Bucky doesn’t mess up but he isn’t on fire, not like he usually is. The rest of them notice.

\--

Sunday. 5:32am.

Steve’s nightmare is familiar. He had it before his mother died, but he hasn’t had this one since she passed. He isn’t expecting it; in fact, in the wake of everything that’s happened – the funeral, working, counting the days that have passed since he last saw his mother’s eyes (because he saw her in the coffin at the viewing, but that was not her. The body that lay in the coffin couldn’t make him cookies, couldn’t sing lullabies in his ear, couldn’t tickle his back as he lay facedown on the sofa, body being attacked from within by some illness or other.), he’d forgotten all about the dream. He hasn’t been sleeping well since her death, but when he does sleep, it is, thankfully, mostly dreamless.

He thought he was getting off easy here.

He was wrong.

In the dream, his mother is on a bed, hooked up to machines. Steve is sitting in a chair at the foot of her bed, watching her, but he cannot move.

A man comes through the window dressed in his army uniform, as he is on the mantle in their apartment. Their _old_ apartment. He looks at Steve. He smiles softly. Steve smiles back. He is calm.

Then his father deftly unplugs the machines keeping his mother alive.

The heartrate monitor reflects the slowing of her heart. It flatlines.

His father bends to kiss his mother’s forehead. Steve cannot move.

His thrashing usually wakes him at this point. Sometimes he screams. When his mother was still alive, she would come into the room, if she was well enough, sit on the edge of his bed, and sing him an old lullaby from when he was a child until he fell back to sleep.

He never told her what the dream was about. Now, selfishly, as he wakes and nearly falls off the couch, he wishes he had told her, if only to hear her tell him softly that his father would never have done such a thing, that he was a good man, a brave one, and that he died so that Steve would be able to experience freedom for his whole life.

Steve knows she would have said these things, but she never did. She never spoke about his father at all. Sarah Rogers was the strongest woman Steve ever knew and, he suspects, ever will know, and he wonders what it says about her grief that she never talked about her husband. He wonders, horribly, what is says about his father. All Steve knows is that he died in a desert, and that his mother had heard the news when she was 7 months pregnant.

The stress induced labor, and Steve believes firmly that he wouldn’t have survived it if it weren’t for the fact that she needed him so very desperately. It is this – and, sometimes, this alone – that keeps him believing in a higher purpose.

 

Sunday. 9:47am.

Natasha stretches as she walks out of her room. Sam is still sleeping but he’ll wake when he smells one of them frying bacon. “Bacon,” he always says as he walks into the kitchen, “could wake the dead.”

This morning, Steve doesn’t think he can handle hearing that. He can’t even stomach the smell of bacon, knowing that it never will, in fact, raise the dead. Natasha sees the cereal and bowls sitting on the counter and infers as much. She takes a bowl, milk, a box of Frosted Shredded Wheat, and a banana from the bowl on the counter. She sits at the table and dices the banana into the cereal before saying, “You had a bad dream.”

She’s so goddamn intuitive. Steve musses his hair up even more than it already is and shrugs.

“I heard the TV on before 7, I knew something was up. You never even watch TV.” She’s looking at him levelly. He comes to sit across from her.

“I needed something mindless,” he says.

“And did it work?” She nudges his leg with her toe. “And don’t lie to me because I’ll be able to tell, you have no poker face.”

“It didn’t really work, no,” Steve admits.

Natasha nods slowly. “Well.” She gets up, grabs her bowl, and flounces over to the couch, which she plops down on. “Let’s find something that _will_ get your mind off it, shall we?”

She doesn’t even care that his sheets are still on the couch. He sits next to her and the two of them channel surf until they find a Spanish soap opera that, between them, using Steve’s four years of high school Spanish and Natasha’s six years of Russian, they misinterpret the plot of so badly that Steve’s even laughing a little by the end.

 

Sunday. 12:59pm.

On the way to Steve’s, Bucky stops for a coffee and a donut. By the time he arrives, he’s eaten half the donut and drank almost all the coffee. He woke up a little late, after drinking maybe slightly too much the night before, and making out with a girl who turned out to be engaged. He vows to never again get so drunk he doesn’t notice a ring on a finger.

He’s feeling solidly okay when he gets to Steve’s. After his shitty performance at the gig on Tuesday, Mark had given him the silent treatment for a day or so before dropping it, figuring Bucky had suffered enough, and they’d practiced until Bucky couldn’t feel his fingers and Mark’s voice was shot. They’d had a gig on Friday and everything went smoothly. Bucky refused to even begin to think about anything other than the music and his bandmates. He’d gotten some guy’s number afterward but didn’t call or text him.

As he raises his hand to knock on Steve’s door, clutching his donut bag with the half-eaten donut under his arm, sipping his coffee, he wonders why he didn’t call the guy.

Almost – _almost_ – as a response, Steve opens the door and smiles a little. Bucky curses in his mind. _This is completely ridiculous, the entire thing, and I refuse to get emotionally – or physically – invested in it._

With this vow complete, he crosses the threshold. As he greets Steve, he realizes he should’ve bought a second fucking donut. _Dumbass._

He’s probably going to offer the other half to Steve anyway, but then Steve says, “Don’t worry, I’m making this a quick one today, and my roommates are in there.” He gestures to one of what Bucky presumes are the bedrooms.

And the way Steve’s voice comes out, well, Bucky doesn’t have to be a psychologist to know that he’s having a rough day. So Bucky says, “Sure. Hey I got a half a donut here calling your name.” He offers the bag.

“Oh it’s fine,” Steve says, shaking his head quickly, and it seems like more of a reflex response than an actual denial.

“Okay I’m leaving it here though.” Bucky sets it down on the table. “I don’t give a shit who eats it, you or the mice, but somebody’s going to eventually.”

“I’ll feed it to the homeless,” Steve says. His tone is dry. Bucky laughs.

“Whatever works.”

There’s an awkward, expectant silence, which Bucky is clearly supposed to fill by taking off his clothes.

He glances at the door Steve said his roommates are behind. “Uh. Are they-”

“Come hell or highwater, they’re staying in there,” Steve says, and he crosses his heart in the absentminded way of someone who’s been to church more than just Easter and Christmas. If Bucky were to do that, just for dramatic effect, he’d have to focus for awhile to figure out what side to start on and where to go next. Right to left? Then down? Or up?

As Bucky takes off his belt, he asks, “You religious?”

And the subject is a jump, he can see in Steve’s eyes that he’s startled by it. He answers anyway and doesn’t comment on that. “A little. Maybe not.”

“Well it’s for the best,” Bucky says, taking off his shirt. He catches Steve’s eyes lingering. Or maybe he imagines it. “Because this confession would be awkward as fuck.”

“Father,” Steve imitates himself in a higher-pitched voice than his real one, “forgive me, but I have drawn another man naked for an art class.”

Bucky laughs. “Wonder if that’s worse than drawing a woman naked.”

“The age old question.” Something in his tone makes Bucky wonder – but he makes himself stop as he peels his ripped skinny jeans off his legs.

There’s a silence. It lasts until Bucky’s taken off his socks and underwear and everything is on the floor.

“I’d really be horrified if your roommates came out…” he says as he sits down on the couch, trying to look natural. In light of the idea of Steve’s roommates seeing him naked, just Steve seeing him naked doesn’t seem so embarrassing.

“They won’t,” Steve promised. “I’m serious. They even have a can to pee in if they have to go.”

“Or they could go out the window,” Bucky says. “This is New York.”

“Oh but the neighborhood is so nice,” Steve says as he starts to draw Bucky. “We’d ruin the real estate.”

Bucky laughs. Steve’s neighborhood isn’t terrible but it’s not _nice_. “You know this apartment’s not bad,” he says sincerely, because he can see Steve getting a…weird look, in his eye. He remembers what Natasha said about him going through a hard time. He wonders why, but of course, he can’t ask.

But God he wants to know.

“Yeah it’s not,” Steve agrees. “Sam’s got some money. He’s got a good job this summer, too. We split rent between the three of us but he throws a little more money at the bills than we do. Nat and I,” he adds for clarification.

Bucky nods, before remembering he’s supposed to be still. “So can I like nod and shit? Can I scratch something if it itches?”

“Depends what the itch is,” Steve says, and then flushes red, and Bucky tries not to laugh. Someone up there must really hate him, giving him this sexy artist, making him naked, and then having the sexy artist say quasi-sexual things and blush all over the place.

It’s not fucking fair and it’s not right.

“I mean where,” Steve says a few moments later, when it’s way too late for clarifications. “Where the itch is.”

“Ah. I wondered.” Bucky doesn’t nod. He still doesn’t know if he can.

It’s silent for awhile, then. Bucky tries to shift so Steve won’t notice. He hears a girl’s laugh through the wall. Steve glances over his shoulder and a small smile tugs at his lips at the sound.

So Bucky decides that he must like her. He must. _Fuck_.

And why the fuck didn’t he call the guy? Is it too late? No. He can call now. Right? He can call now? It’s only the next day.

For some reason he tells himself it’s too late. Even if it’s not.

Steve reaches up and brushes some of his hair out of his eyes and Bucky nearly loses it. Those fingers. The subconscious movement.

And Steve’s outfit is just so very… _Steve_. Bucky doesn’t even really know Steve that well but he knows that much. He has on jeans, worn at the knee, and [a black t-shirt](http://www.cafepress.com/mf/63700503/ninjapolymathsdark_tshirt?productId=605974764) that has the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle’s namesakes on it. The fact that he’s lame and an artist makes him very, very appealing to Bucky.

His thick eyebrows are knotted together now, above the bridge of his oversized nose, and Bucky feels guilty for not entertaining him more to keep his mind off of…whatever. Bucky wonders what it is he’s upset about. What could have happened? Did his dog die? Is it financial troubles?

“So uh, this donut,” Bucky says. “You should really eat it. When you’re done.”

“I almost am,” Steve says, and goddamn he’s fast. Or maybe time just passed faster this time, now that Bucky’s awkwardness isn’t dragging it out. He’s slightly disappointed.

“And then you’re going to eat it?” Bucky pesters. “I’ll tell Natasha about it, she’ll bug you to eat it.”

“Not sure you wanna go in there,” Steve says, with a glance to Bucky then to the bedroom.

Bucky’s eyes widen a little. Sam and Natasha? Are they a thing? So Steve doesn’t have a crush on Natasha? Bucky’s barely even found the time to get jealous about this manufactured crush he made up in his own mind.

Or maybe Steve has a crush on her but it’s unrequited since she’s in love with Sam?

Bucky watches him closely. He slouches as he draws and Bucky tries to remember if he did that last week. He’ll have to pay more attention next week to see if he does it then.

He wonders why the fuck he’s invested in this at all. It should be a stupid embarrassing thing he’ll try to forget when it’s done, as soon as Steve’s handed him his money and the last session is officially in the past. It shouldn’t be something he thinks about. Ever.

But. Steve.

After a few more minutes, Steve clears his throat. “Okay. Done.” He bites his lip. “You can, uh, go, so I can eat my donut in peace.”

Bucky laughs a little. He starts to pull on his clothes again. He feels like Steve is watching him but he doesn’t dare look at him. This session had a lot less…sexual tension. Steve’s weirdness was in the way, Bucky guesses. But that’s okay. Right? He didn’t _like_ the tension. He didn’t like the boner.

“Sorry I’ve been in a weird mood,” Steve says suddenly as Bucky gets up and turns toward the door. Steve’s there now, holding it open for him. “It’s a weird day.”

Bucky nods and he wants to know more. Why is it a weird day? Why? “It’s okay. We all get those.”

“Same time next week?”

“Yep.”

There’s a pause. Bucky is suddenly completely aware of his previous nakedness, which he’d managed to forget in light of Steve’s odd mood and his joking. Steve’s seen him naked once, anyway, he tells himself. Any subsequent times won’t mean anything.

He hopes to God that’s true.

And in Steve’s eyes he sees something – a desire – or is that a reflection of his own? In that case, Steve can definitely tell. But he doesn’t have any recognition on his face, recognition that Bucky is totally fucking attracted to him right now.

It’s frustrating. He smiles a little. They’re too close. He nods. He was fucking _naked_ in this guy’s apartment.

His cheeks burn, uncharacteristically. “Okay. See you.” He walks uncertainly out of the apartment, down the hall.

“See you,” Steve echoes behind him.

Overall, things could have gone much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the wonderful comments/kudos/bookmarks! It's so, so encouraging that you're enjoying this little fic as much as I am. I've just started responding to comments so if you left a comment on an earlier chapter I don't hate or ignore you, I just started at chapter 4 and didn't want to go back and respond to every single one because I didn't know if that would be annoying. Your comments literally mean the world to me though.


	5. Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff Try Not to Discuss Feelings in a Starbucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 8/20/15: I'm working on the next chapter, but with work finishing up/being hit by inspiration for a oneshot fic that got a little out of hand (which you can check out while you wait for this one to update, if you want), I'm a bit busy. I promise the next chapter is forthcoming though! Do not fear!
> 
> Also, a relevant-ish note! I didn't come up with the name Bear Paw for Bucky's band, it actually belongs to a friend of a friend's very talented band! You should check them out, they're up-and-coming and London-based and I saw them live in September and it was really neato. Here's their YouTube page, they don't have a lot uploaded at the moment but do check out what they have. (This isn't what Bucky's band sounds like though, I picture them as being more angst-alt-rock.) https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC18sE--SzgkShoUfFy5YU3g

Monday. 9:37pm. Starbucks.

Natasha is leaning with her elbows rested on the counter and her chin balanced on the back of her hands, which are laced together delicately. Bucky tries not to look at how her ass is sticking out – right into his workspace, not that he’s doing any work at the moment. He’s wiping down the counters perfunctorily, because there is no one here and nothing to do. Their leering manager, who thinks that the fact that he manages a Starbucks is impressive and not just sad, is in the back probably sexting his girlfriend.

(Bucky has no evidence to prove that the manager, Dave, a) has a girlfriend, b) would use his phone on the job, c) would sext a girlfriend if he had one, or d) would sext a girlfriend if he had one while _on the job_. But he just assumes this is probably what Dave is doing in the back because he doesn’t like Dave, since he always tells Bucky to go do stuff that Bucky would have done on his own, and then Dave gets the credit for thinking of washing the windows when Bucky was pretty much probably going to go do it anyway in five minutes.)

(Bucky can’t wait until he gets to be a full-time rockstar, and then he can order other people around – except because he’s got this Starbucks experience under his belt he probably won’t really order other people around that much because he hates being ordered around. But in theory, as a full-time rockstar, he could order people around as much as he wants and nobody will be able to tell him what to do. Except his manager, who he’s decided is going to be totally oppressive and say offensive things until he and his bandmates [who may or may not be the current members of Bear Paw] quit the label and branch out, taking their small but dedicated set of fans with them, to create music _their way_ , which will be hailed as a Brave Decision by the Alternative Press and probably Rolling Stone, and they’ll be the Band to Watch and they’ll become famous just because of their manager who probably wasn’t really so bad at all, but for the purposes of fame had to be coerced and pushed to say rude things. Which would probably be warranted.)

Anyway, Natasha’s ass. Bucky knows that if she sees him looking at it she’ll probably kill him because ballerinas are like that. Bucky slept with a ballerina once and it was one of the most terrifying experiences of his life, an opinion that he’ll take with him to the grave. She was beautiful and sexy, yes, but much more muscular than him and she was highly opinionated about things like government policy (a conversation he could have contributed to, and would have if she hadn’t so clearly not wanted to hear his opinions), foreign countries and their various pitfalls, the ways in which men fail her every day, and, terrifyingly, Bucky’s own physique.

So because that’s the only ballerina he’s ever had a long, semi-meaningful conversation with, he assumes Natasha’s probably like that too. And it’s a safe bet. He kind of wants to befriend her but he’s not sure if it’s wise to do so, considering the whole…Steve situation.

Whatever the Steve situation is.

If there even is a Steve situation.

Which there probably isn’t.

Though if that were true, Bucky wouldn’t now find himself saying aloud, “Steve seemed kind of off yesterday.”

As Natasha straightens and turns to look at him, now standing wide-eyed and vaguely horrified with his spray bottle of Dawn and blue cleaning cloth, facing her.

He hadn’t meant to say anything about that, and if he had decided to say something, he wouldn’t have worded it like that. But one thing about Bucky that he hates but people around him delight in: he can’t always control his mouth, especially when it knows that his brain has something sensational to say that will lead to an interesting and possibly self-destructing conversation. He doesn’t know this yet but he’s nowhere near as bad as Steve when it comes to this blurting things out because he feels them. But he’s on the scale.

“Yeah?” Natasha seems highly amused. “You guys have a feelings talk?”

“No!” Bucky exclaims quickly, reddening, twisting the cap of the Dawn nervously. “Nope. No.” He has to say it three times so she’s really clear on the fact that they truly did not have a feelings talk while Bucky was naked on her couch. “I just thought. Well. Obviously I don’t know him. Just wanted to see from you if he’s, uh, okay. I gave him half my donut.”

She’s still amused. He can see a little smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, I saw him eating it. He said you’d bitten it.”

Bucky shrugs. “Beggers can’t be choosers,” he says, trying to find his stride in this conversation which he never meant to have. “Just thought maybe it’d be nice to give him something.”

“You were giving him your body,” Natasha says, and the way she says it – plainly, innocently, like she doesn’t realize what she’s saying – is so purposeful that Bucky doesn’t know if he should be annoyed or impressed.

He chooses impressed, just because they’re coworkers and he has to put up with her, and being annoyed by her wouldn’t help the shifts pass any faster.

“I wanted to give him more than that,” Bucky said, “though of course it’s worth a thousand donuts. Maybe more.”

“Probably more,” Natasha agrees, eyeing him up and down clearly.

Bucky’s surprised. She always surprises him. She seems like the type who wouldn’t give away compliments just like that. But maybe this isn’t ‘just like that.’ They’ve talked every time they’ve had a shift together, which has been fairly often in the past few months. Maybe they’re…friends? 

This is confirmed further when Natasha asks, “So Bucky, I’ve been wondering. And you don’t have to answer – but I think if you don’t answer it’s kind of an answer-”

“Shoot,” Bucky says, setting down the Dawn and folding and refolding the cloth in his hands. He’s a little nervous by what her question will be. From her, it could be literally anything. _So Bucky, want to help me kill Dave and hide the body? We can just put it where I usually put them._ or _So Bucky, why do you go by Bucky?_ He has no fucking clue about this girl, and that impresses him too. She manages to be completely mysterious but not in an overt way that some people are (usually those people also have black lipstick and intense eyebrows, and Bucky isn’t as scared or impressed by them).

“Are you into guys or girls or both?” she asks.

He’d been expecting to be blindsided, but this question is a little benign and kind of – obvious. That in itself blindsides him and again, he’s fucking impressed.

“Both,” he answers without too much of a pause. “You?”

She seems satisfied so she shrugs. “Honestly? Don’t care. I like both but I don’t label it. It’s not important to me. Steve-” She cuts herself off and Bucky has the urge to grab her by the shoulder and shake her until she tells him what she was about to say. He gets the feeling she wouldn’t bend under torture though and his efforts would be for naught. _Shit._ She’s too good of a friend. She won’t out him. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to say – was she maybe going to say he’s homophobic or something? _Shit shit shit_ he really wants to know. He really, really wants to know.

He cuts off these thoughts. _You don’t care, Barnes. You don’t give a rat’s ass. This is just a weird thing. Just a weird quasi-job thing. A naked thing. But it’s not homoerotic._

Except that it is.

“Cool,” he says, realizing he’s been a little lost in thought. She notices but just smiles knowingly at him. She knows he’s going to be driven crazy by that, the implication that she had something to say in relation to Steve and sexuality but he’ll never know.

Unless, of course, he asks Steve himself.

Which maybe wouldn’t be awkward if they met in a bar or even Starbucks or somewhere normal people meet. But in this situation, where everything is at least a little awkward, it’s planted even further in awkward territory.

“It is, isn’t it?” She laughs and a customer comes in then asking if they’re closed (which they clearly aren’t because the door opened, buddy, and the sign says Open). Natasha says no, they aren’t closed, and what would he like? She’s great with customers and Bucky marvels at it as he goes into the back to get more cups to start stocking.

Dave’s in the back, taking inventory, and he glances up at Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t say hello and Dave certainly doesn’t either. Fuckin’ Dave.

By the time Bucky’s finished with the cups, Natasha has made the customer’s drink and the guy’s left, and she’s waiting for him.

“So. How do _you_ think the model life is working out?” she asks. She’s smiling; amused. Of course she is. He would be, if it weren’t him.

“I think it’s really the career for me,” Bucky says sarcastically. “Fuck guitar. I’m going full nude.”

Natasha laughs. “Maybe you could be a nude guitarist. It worked in the 70s probably, maybe it can work again.”

“If only,” Bucky says wistfully, then catches something in her eye, something serious, as she says,

“Really, though. How is it?” She’s actually interested. “I know I set you up to it a little bit so. I just want to make sure it’s not something you’re super uncomfortable with. If you were Steve would be okay with stopping.”

“No!” Bucky says, a little too quickly, and by doing so he carefully takes out his heart and places it right on his goddamn Starbucks uniform sleeve.

Natasha smiles but it’s not a smirk.

“I mean. It’s not too uncomfortable. I don’t care. It’s a little weird, yeah, but this is New York and we’re young and, yeah.” He gestures vaguely to capture the sense of teen spirit that hasn’t quite left them yet, and the rebellion that comes with being naked.

“I understand,” she agrees. “And I think it really is helping him. He’s… Well, you know.” She clearly isn’t serious like this very often. Bucky recognizes that this is the true her. “He’s having a difficult time, like I said, and I worry about him, and I think you’re a good distraction from all that. Even if it is just half an hour once a week.”

“Well I don’t think I’m really qualified to be a _therapist_ or anything,” Bucky says. He’s not nearly good enough with other people’s feelings – he’s not even good with his own – and he feels unqualified to help someone through a tough time. He’s never really done it before. His bandmates have had hard lives, some of them, but he’s just there for the after. Bucky Barnes has never _helped_ anyone before, not for the during, and the realization of this brings with it the crippling firmness of the fact that he can’t do it. He can’t help people. He can play the guitar and he can fuck and he can argue about the government, all until he turns blue, but the most he can ever do for other people is carry their feelings delicately to the next person who’s more qualified to deal with them.

“You don’t have to be his therapist,” Natasha says, scattering his thoughts. “You just have to be a distraction which you are. Don’t stress about it.” She gives him a knowing look. “It’s intimidating. I know. I feel it too.” As soon as she's said it, she turns suddenly. “Dave wants me.” He doesn’t. “You want to finish stocking out here?”

He doesn’t respond until she’s gone, and then he says, “Yep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all of your lovely encouragement, I started responding to comments for the last chapter because you guys write such nice things, so if you left one before that and I didn't respond it isn't because I didn't read and absolutely love it, it's just that I didn't want to annoy people by responding to everything.  
> Anyway, if you're reading and enjoying please do let me know because I can't describe how happy it makes me.


	6. The Concept of Family is Loosely Considered, and a Polaroid Photo is Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit to get out because I went to Maine and had an existential experience staring at the stars, talking about the universe and blow jobs, and hiking barefoot. I'm back now though and here to present what I think is the longest chapter yet!
> 
> Warning: NSFW picture at the end, but it's very worth it.

Tuesday. 7:42pm.

It’s in keeping with the natural order of things that Steve begins to feel the familiar tightness behind his eyes and in his chest that signals illness. In class earlier he had to hold back a cough the entire time, not wanting to disturb things. At work he tried not to get too close to customers to talk to them. The day went horribly, because now in addition to the already shit-spectacle that is his life, he has to worry about getting sick. Is it a cold? Is it the flu?

He trudges home and up the stairs, wiping his nose on his sleeve, letting out a pathetic little cough as he turns the key in the door. He wants to climb into bed – onto the couch – and sleep until he feels better, but instead he’ll have to wake up in the morning to do it again, feeling even worse, probably. Thank God for medicine.

He’s rummaging through the medicine cabinet, looking for some NyQuil, finding that he’s reached the end of the box and only has two pills left. So he’ll have to go get some tomorrow, at the _very_ least. And he can’t really afford to skip work, and he needs to attend class because he missed so much… _Shit._

Steve tries very, very hard to stay in good spirits when he’s sick. He hates self-pity and refuses to fall into that, refuses to start thinking about how shitty things are, how his mom is dead and his health is shit and he wheezes when he fast-walks two city blocks. Yeah. It would be easy to pity himself. But he refuses to do it.

In the kitchen he fills himself a glass of water. Sam’s sitting at the table with a bowl of mac and cheese. “What’s wrong?” he asks, spying the NyQuil box in Steve’s hand.

“Probably just a cold,” Steve says, and _probably_ means _hopefully_. Sam knows that, and makes a sympathetic noise.

“Man, I know that’s all you need right now,” he says. “Want me to make you some soup or something?”

Steve shakes his head and swallows the pills. “I’m fine, probably just gonna fall asleep. This stuff’ll make me drowsy.” He coughs.

“Well then let me get you tea,” Sam says, and it doesn’t matter if Steve protests because Sam’s already up and filling the kettle with water. “We’ve got chamomile, that cool?”

Steve nods, takes a paper towel off the roll and blows his nose into it.

“Sit,” Sam says, motioning to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Steve obeys, sitting and leaning back, taking a deep breath, and coughing on the breath out.

“You gonna call out sick tomorrow or are you going to be a stubborn little shit?” Sam asks as he fills the kettle with water at the sink.

Steve laughs lightly. “Well what do you think?” he asks.

Sam sighs. “Steve…” he says in a warning tone. “You need to take care of yourself. Take some time off. Sleep. Watch tv. Do nothing. God knows you’ve earned it. Everyone agrees, no one will judge you if you just let it loose a little and relax…”

“I can’t relax, Sam,” Steve says firmly. “I’ve got responsibilities. Nobody’s watching out for me anymore. It’s just me.”

Sam turns to him slowly, a sad expression on his face, deep into his eyes. “You don’t really think that,” he says quietly. “You can’t think that nobody’s watching out for you, Steve.”

Steve shrugs but he feels like he did when he was a kid mouthing off in school, getting told sternly that he ‘shouldn’t say those things.’ He knows Sam and Nat care, but they aren’t related, and he worries their contracts will run out.

His mother’s contract would never have run out. Should never have run out.

“We love you,” Sam says firmly; the water starts to boil, making a churning, bubbling noise in the kettle. Sam is looking at Steve like he wants to see straight through his skin.

Steve feels uncomfortable, and his eyelids are beginning to feel heavy. He sniffs, puts the paper towel back up to his noise again to wipe it.

“We’re always going to love you,” Sam says, and it’s such an honest statement that he has to turn away as he says it, busy himself putting the tea bag in the mug.

And somehow it’s that that convinces Steve he’s telling the truth. Maybe…they really will always be there for him.

Or at the very least, they think they will right now.

But it isn’t the same.

It won’t be, ever.

\--

Friday. 10:43am.

Bucky meets Becca when she gets off the train at Penn Station. He’s grinning widely and she rolls her eyes at his puppy dog look and draws him in for a hug, then takes off her backpack and hands it to him, asking if he’ll carry it for her because it’s heavy and she had to get up before the sun rose. It’s a purple Jansport and he doesn’t hesitate before putting it on his own back – the best part about Bucky now is that he doesn’t give much of a shit anymore what strangers think about him, so while in high school he might have groaned and said he can’t wear a purple backpack, now he doesn’t care. Becca thinks she can even detect a little bit of  eyeliner rimming his eyes. The other best part about Bucky is that he feels guilty as hell for leaving her in their lame little town with their parents while he came to New York and basically never called home nor visited unless he was forced. The combination of these two things leave him carrying her backpack as they walk out onto the street and he leads the way toward Sarah Lawrence.

Becca’s here for an orientation weekend, come down on the train – her parents had reminded her multiple times that if Bucky wasn’t waiting for her  at the station, she should stay put and call him, not try to find her own way to campus. They had apparently forgotten, probably because they were _trying_ to forget, that she was going to live in this city in just over a month, and that Bucky wouldn’t always be around to shepherd her from her dorm to the grocery or class or, heaven forbid, somewhere _fun_.

They have to walk several blocks to Grand Central to get on the Harlem line and ride to Yonkers, where Sarah Lawrence is. “It’s gonna be a long ride, are you hungry?” Bucky asks as they pass a street vendor that’s pushing out the aroma of hot dogs, reminding both of them how hungry they are.

“Starving, can we eat first?”

Bucky takes her to a Subway where they each order subs. He tells her that he’ll pay, even though he’s the college dropout with actual living expenses. “No, Bucky, I’m paying for my own,” she says firmly, taking out her wallet as they step up to the cash register.

“I feel like I owe you-” Bucky starts, but she holds up a hand.

“Spare me. You’ll pay in juicy details about your life,” she tells him as she hands the cashier her card.

Bucky sighs, mutters, “That’s what I was afraid of,” and pays his half of the bill.

They sit down at a table and start to eat. “So,” Becca says with a wide grin, “There’s barely any good gossip back home since everyone’s heading off to school. Everybody’s breaking up and nobody’s starting any shit now because people are leaving. So I need to hear some good city gossip. Spill everything.”

Bucky looks uncomfortable for a moment. So there’s definitely _something_ newsworthy going on in his life; she just has to figure out what it is. She’ll probably have to drag it out of him, but she’s used to that. Bucky’s hardly an open book.

“Well,” Bucky starts, “the band’s going well. We’re called Bear Paw at the moment. I kind of like it. Sort of badass but not super badass. Like us. We’ll see though, we’re still sort of searching for our image. We recorded some demos because Alex has a friend who has recording stuff, so we’ve been selling them after our shows and some people are actually buying. It’s cool because we keep seeing the same faces in the audience now, so interest’s actually picking up and we have a few hundred likes on Facebook. We’ll see what happens, I’m feeling kind of hopeful but trying not to get too excited. I mean we need one break really but there are so many bands in New York and how many become successful?” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s barely any money coming in from the gigs and the demos so that’s why I work at Starbucks. Which is boring.” He pauses and then throws in, “And my manager sucks.”

“Sounds shitty,” Becca says sympathetically. She hopes that the band thing works out for Bucky. He’s always been passionate about music, even when he was in marching band, and now he’s given up what could have been a promising career in politics, or political journalism, or _whatever_ , to pursue a music career. Becca suspects that her parents hope the music thing doesn’t work out, because they’re so against it and love to be proven right, but Becca just wants Bucky to be happy. And if the little bit of eyeliner and the guitar make him happy then so be it.

“But it’s a means to an end,” Bucky reasons, and Becca nods in agreement. “So are you nervous for orientation?”

Becca can see that he’s trying to take the attention off him, and she allows it – for a moment, anyway. “A little,” she says. “I’m mostly excited. I’ve talked to people on Facebook so I’m going to meet them and we’re all into similar things, so that’s good. There’ll be food there so that’s always good.”

Bucky laughs. “Free food is the highlight of college, easily,” he says, then leans in a little, curious. “Speaking of…how long do you think it’ll be before college stops being a sore subject for mom and dad?”

Becca smirks at him. “Probably until you go back to school and finish your degree,” she says, doing her best impression of their father.

“Jesus.” Bucky scrubs a hand down his face. “And how long before they accept that I’m not the heterosexual straight A marching band boy they knew and loved?”

“Longer than that, probably,” Becca says wisely. She feels bad for Bucky. Her parents think she’s a perfect child – she’s good in school, and she doesn’t know exactly what she wants to do yet but she’s going to a good college, and the fact that she’s going in undeclared is something they clearly feel they can overlook. Bucky used to be a perfect child, too, but then he dropped out of college and fucked a guy and it was all to shit. “They love you though,” she says truthfully, and Bucky, predictably, pretends he doesn’t care.

“So is there anything else interesting going on?” Becca asks as they throw away their wrappers and walk back out into the heat. Bucky’s still wearing her backpack.

“Not really,” Bucky says. She can see that it’s a lie because of the way he looks straight ahead and not at her.

“Am I going to have to drag it out of you?” she asks tiredly. “Because I really don’t want to, Bucky, I’d like for you to just tell me. Do you have anybody you’re interested in? Are you dating somebody?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not really interested in dating,” he says. He glances at her now. “Really. I’m doing the whole music thing, I’m pretty busy with that and working as much as I can. I don’t have a lot of time – or money – to be spending on a date.”

“Sounds lonely,” she comments.

“Sounds practical,” he replies.

There’s a silence for a few blocks as they walk. Becca takes in the city – soon to be hers – and thinks about how glad she is that she’ll be living here, away from her parents’ overarching opinions and the people she’s grown up with, who have nailed her to a certain personality that she’s not sure she loves anymore. Going to college is a time to figure out who you are and who you want to be – and nobody did that more effectively than her older brother, really. He went with something in mind but decided he didn’t like it, and had the guts to _change_ it. He jumped off the train he was on because he wasn’t crazy about the destination, and Becca thinks that’s impressive as hell. Maybe she’ll even tell him one day.

Bucky used to be a boring all-American guy. He dated some girls in the band, did well in school, got glowing references from multiple teachers, graduated in the top 10% in his class, and went off to a good college in New York. Now three years later, he’s a bisexual college dropout in a band, walking along next to her with ripped jeans, eyeliner, and messy hair.

And she loves it. She’s always loved him and been glad he’s her brother, even though they used to fight a lot, but now she thinks he’s an inspiration too. He’s following his dream. That’s cool.

She just hopes he’s happy. “So, you good?” she asks, nudging him. “Like, you’re enjoying…life?”

Bucky laughs. “I’m doing what I love,” he says. “It’s hard but it’s also way better than PoliSci. So. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good,” she says, “but I refuse to believe there’s nobody you’ve got your eye on.”

She can see that there’s a war going on behind Bucky’s eyes, and eventually, as they enter Grand Central, Bucky says, “Well, there’s sort of a guy but it’s never going to happen, just a weird thing.”

“What kind of weird thing?” Becca asks. “A work thing?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “He’s a friend of one of my coworkers actually and I…see him every now and then. And he’s adorable.”

“Ah,” she says knowingly. “You gonna ask him out?”

“I don’t know if he likes guys, much less if he likes _me_ ,” Bucky says.

“That’s why you ask him out, Bucky,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I can’t though!” Bucky looks so frantic that she decides to go easy on him and change tactics.

“Maybe invite him to a show then? You might get a better idea of how he feels? And it would be a hint to him that you’re into him.”

Bucky considers for a moment, then says, “Maybe.” He draws out the word and she can’t tell if he’s really going to do it, but at this point it’s not her call to make anymore.

“I’ve done all I can,” she says, holding up her hands. “If you do  nothing it’s not my fault, you’re just a hopeless case.”

Bucky glares. They’re standing on the train platform now, waiting for the train that will take them uptown. “Maybe I _don’t_ want you moving here,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’re meddlesome.”

“No, meddlesome would be demanding to meet him,” she says, and then assumes a glint in her eye that makes Bucky turn and actually walk away from her.

“I’m not talking to you ever again!” he calls behind him, in a tone that reminds her of when they were both teenagers.

“Well at least give me my backpack!” she exclaims, and Bucky lets it fall off his shoulders and onto the ground with a firm thud.

She rolls her eyes. _Brothers._

\--

Sunday. 1:05pm.

One good thing, at least, is that Steve is a lot less sick today than he was yesterday. He’d worried he would have to cancel his session with Bucky – he had actually _obsessed_ over it, every cough bringing more dread, every tissue thrown into the trash can draining a bit more hope. He had realized that he really enjoys his drawing sessions with Bucky. He’s attractive and he isn’t a bad guy, either, even if it is a little difficult to get to know him under the awkward circumstances. Planning the session, executing it, and cleaning up afterward keep him busy for at least a portion of the day every Sunday, and Sundays can be the hardest day. He rarely works on Sundays and there’s no class. It’s an empty expanse of a day, and those are dangerous. They leave too much time to think about things, and if Steve thinks too much, he gets depressed. Especially on the day his mother usually reserved for him, to go to church and then eat lunch out somewhere and maybe go to the park and watch him draw… If he’s stuck inside, sick, he’ll think about all of this, and it’ll be bad.

There’s another reason he’s excited to wake up Sunday morning with a clearer nasal passage and less gunk in his chest – and that is that Steve, as Natasha puts it, has a massive boner for Bucky Barnes.

It’s true. Bucky is really, incredibly, very attractive. Steve is lucky he gets to spend at least a half hour every Sunday staring at that body and recreating it to look at whenever he wants throughout the week. (The amount of times he takes advantage of this and gazes at his drawings of Bucky is just sad, but it always puts him into a better mood.) Because the drawings so far have been a little awkward, Steve’s goal for this one is to make it seem more _familiar._ He’s hoping he can capture Bucky laughing, so it’s for this purpose that he has his Polaroid camera sitting on the coffee table next to his box of tissues. He’s cleared his sheets from the couch, in case Bucky wants to sit again, but he’s hoping that he won’t. Steve wants to vary the pose and have Bucky standing by the window, maybe, with the light coming in.

Natasha’s at the dance studio and Sam is still asleep in his room when Bucky knocks on the door. Steve blows his nose one last time, for good measure, and goes to open it.

“Hi,” he says with a smile.

Bucky smiles back. “Hey,” he replies. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

Steve glances at the clock as if he hadn’t noticed. “Oh it’s fine, I was just setting up,” he lies. He’s been set up since 10:00.

_“You’re obsessing,” Natasha had said as she left, duffel bag in hand._

_“It’s not the worst thing I could be obsessing over right now,” Steve pointed out, and Natasha had frowned, and then nodded._

“Cool. I have no food today,” Bucky says. “I heard you did eat my donut though.” He’s grinning.

Steve grumbles Natasha’s name, then says, “Never trust a ballerina, they live for gossip.”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah I’m getting that,” he says.

There’s a slightly awkward silence and Steve steps aside, motioning for Bucky to come in, which he does. He spies the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes over to pick it up. “Oh, cool! You actually have one of these?”

“Yeah, they’re convenient for this kind of thing,” Steve says, joining him to look at the camera. “I was hoping I could maybe take a picture of you laughing or talking or something, and then I’d just pin it to the easel and you can do a pose like you’re laughing but you don’t have to really laugh the whole time.”

“That would be exhausting,” Bucky agrees, “unless you have a lot of really good jokes.”

“Sorry, I’m only really funny for fifteen minutes at a time, tops,” Steve says, and that makes Bucky laugh. Steve feels a sense of pride and laughs as well.

“Natasha did tell me to make sure I only spent fifteen minutes with you at a time because you get boring as hell after that,” he replies, handing Steve the camera.

Steve lifts it to his face, peering through the viewfinder at Bucky. “Chin up,” he says, and Bucky does as he’s told, still smiling.

“You gotta make me laugh now,” Bucky says, arranging his face into a quivering frown.

“Okay, uh. What did the vegetables say at the party?”

“What?” Bucky asks.

“Lettuce turnip the beet!” Steve says, and Bucky barks a laugh, then Steve starts laughing and Bucky laughs more genuinely. _Click_.

Steve lowers the camera. “Sorry, that was the lamest one I know and it probably works a lot better on paper…”

“You got a career in comedy,” Bucky tells him with a very serious expression on his face.

“Good,” Steve says as the photograph prints out of the camera. “Because this art thing is so tiring. I’ve got these models always demanding entertainment.” He starts to wave the picture and Bucky peers closely, interested.

“They used to have Polaroids at my school fairs, you know, to take pictures of us with Santa and stuff, and we used to have all these ones up on the fridge of me and Becca – that’s my sister – and Santa throughout the years.”

“That sounds adorable,” Steve says, and he doesn’t have time to regret saying it before Bucky’s agreeing.

“Yeah it was really adorable.” And then, suddenly, he’s taking off his shirt. “So where do you want me?”

“Uh.” Steve gestures over at the window, still watching the picture appear, simply so he won’t look at Bucky.

“That’s a good idea,” Bucky says, walking over and undoing his belt as he goes. “Where are your roommates?”

“Nat’s at dance, Sam’s asleep,” Steve says. “But he’s out for sure. Work’s tiring him out so he’ll probably sleep until somebody wakes him up.”

“Great,” Bucky says, and drops his pants. Steve turns the easel and pins the photo to it. It’s a really gorgeous picture; Bucky’s laughter is so genuine. Steve hopes he can capture it on paper. If he can, this one will be better than the first two combined.

When he looks up again, Bucky’s naked.

“Okay,” Steve says, clearing his throat, reaching for a  tissue to blow his nose again. _This is not sexy, Rogers._ “And sorry, I’m recovering from a cold.”

Bucky shrugs. “That’s fine,” he says, “It’s just proof that you’re actually human, which I needed.”

Steve has no idea what that means. He stares for a moment and Bucky clears his throat. “So, what do you want me to do then?”

It’s just proof that you’re actually human, which I needed. _What?_

“Uh. Maybe put a hand on the windowsill?” Steve suggests, trying to force his mind back into gear. _This is for school, Rogers, a project you need a good grade on._

Bucky puts his hand on the windowsill and looks to Steve. He looks fucking beautiful.

“Yeah, good,” Steve says. “Chin up a little.” He looks between the photo and Bucky. “Okay. Good. Stay like that.” He starts to draw, going from bottom to top this time. And how can _feet_ be so singularly attractive? Steve’s never understood the foot fetish thing, but he can appreciate that Bucky has nice feet – nice _everything_. Afternoon light is coming through the window. It’s high summer, so the light is yellow and warm, unfiltered. It shines on Bucky’s skin and turns him from a normal, attractive guy, into something entirely different. It isn’t hard to turn him into a work of art because he already is one.

“You look like David,” he says quietly, in his concentration voice.

“Who?” Bucky asks, clearly trying to stay still.

“You know, the statue, David,” Steve says. “You look like that.”

Bucky laughs. “You think people will be lining up to see my junk in hundreds of  years?”

“Could be,” Steve says. “They line up to see Napoleon’s junk.”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No they don’t! What?”

“Maybe I’m thinking of someone else,” Steve mutters, still concentrating, and Bucky doesn’t respond but promises himself he’ll google it later.

Steve tries to make the tone of this one lighter. He’s less stiff, making the likeness less precise but trying instead to capture the essence of Bucky’s laughter. He makes Bucky laugh a few more times so he can get the set of his shoulders and chest right. (More bad jokes are employed, including “What do you call a fish with no eye? Fsh.” and “Why do scuba divers fall backwards into the water? Because if they fell forwards they’d still be in the boat.” and “How do you cut the sea in half? With a sea saw.”) Bucky’s cock still looks awkward, though, stiffly drawn, and he tries not to look there too much. It’s half-hard the whole time, though. He notices that, and draws it as such. He thinks it adds to the picture, even if it isn’t exactly the truth of the situation.

When he finishes, he smiles at Bucky and stretches. “Okay!” he says. “I think we’re done for today.”

“Can I see it?” Bucky asks, walking over to round the easel without waiting for permission. When he sees it, his eyes go wide. “Wow,” he breathes. He hadn’t really wanted to look at the other ones, feeling too awkward to see himself naked, drawn through the eyes of someone else, but this is beautiful. He can tell that Steve feels comfortable doing this, the way his strokes blend together, almost careless, familiar. “You’re really good, Steve,” he says. Somehow, in black and white, he’s managed to capture exactly how Bucky felt – a little turned on, laughing, and halfway to drowning in his crush on Steve Rogers.

So if he’s captured that, then surely he knows it’s true.

“Thanks,” Steve says, looking up at him, right in his eyes, and it’s that that pushes Bucky, still naked as the day he was born, to decide to do what Becca told him to.

“So… I’m in a band. And we have a show Tuesday night. Do you maybe want to come see us? Don’t feel like you have to, but Natasha’s invited to come too.” He suddenly feels nervous and wonders why the hell he decided to ask at all. This is just a _weird thing_ , no matter how intimate that drawing looks. He should be ashamed, he shouldn’t be asking Steve to spend even more time with him. He grabs his underwear off the floor and hurriedly puts it on, all while listening to Steve start to stutter out a response.

“Oh-uh-wow! Tuesday night? Uh. I’ll have to see if I have work?”

Bucky feels like a complete idiot. But at least he’s got underwear on now. He’s usually _good_ at this – he’s actually a smooth person, when he’s fully clothed and talking to someone in a bar with a few drinks in him to loosen him up.

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I mean it’s fine. Don’t really worry about it. Forget I asked. We’re not that good.”

“I’m sure you are!” Steve exclaims. “I really want to come! Just let me check the work schedule and I’ll text you if I can come. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky can already envision the _sorry, can’t go_ text, “Just let me know. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.”

Steve looks a little hurt at that and Bucky feels nauseous from the rollercoaster ride of this conversation. “Not that I don’t _want_ you to come,” _Jesus Christ why am I doing this?_ , “it’s just that if you’re busy you don’t have to worry about making time.” He’s got his pants on now and is pulling on the shirt. He’s never gotten dressed so quickly in his life, not even after waking up in a stranger’s apartment and being told to leave, or waking up in his own bed and realizing he’s late for work.

“Okay, well, I’ll let you know later on today,” Steve promises, and Bucky thanks him and Steve thanks Bucky, and then Bucky leaves, feeling a deep sense of regret covering any happiness he could have had about the picture Steve drew of him.

The regret disappears when he gets a text not even fifteen minutes later.

Steve: Hey, I can come! What time and where? Can Sam come too? He goes where Nat goes ><

Bucky grins and sends him the information, but he only feels a sense of relief for a few moments before he realizes that this means he’ll have to tell the guys who Steve is and how they know each other.

 

 

 

 

Steve's drawing of Bucky, done by the immensely talented [sargeantstuckbutts](http://sargeantstuckbutts.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how much your kudos, comments, bookmarks, and subscriptions mean to me. Thanks to everyone who's commented, etc. and if you want to check me out on tumblr where I occasionally post updates about how this story's coming along, you can find me at princepatroclvs!


	7. Bucky's Band Plays an Ironic Song and a Pick is Dropped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so this is the quickest chapter I've churned out, because I was just so freaking excited to write it and share it with you guys. Hope you enjoy!!

Tuesday. 7:07am.

When Steve tells her that Bucky’s invited him to one of his shows, Natasha pretends to be surprised. Of course, she isn’t. Not in the least. It’s clear that Bucky has a thing for Steve, and it’s even clearer that Steve has something back. She says this to Sam the morning of the show as they sit and eat breakfast, because Steve’s still asleep on the couch and they’re in the kitchen, both working early. They’re speaking in low tones, not wanting to wake Steve up, because he’s still recovering from his illness the previous week and even if he wasn’t, he deserves all the sleep he can get. They both hear him up at night, padding around the apartment. Some mornings they wake up to find the dishes have all been cleaned, or the counters scrubbed, or the clutter on the coffee table straightened. They both wish that Steve would wake them if he’s up in the night and needs company, but they know they can’t make him ask them for help if he’s stubbornly against it.

“So when’s the show?” Sam asks around his mouthful of Lucky Charms, breakfast of champions.

“Tomorrow night,” Natasha says. “And God, Sam, Bucky is _so_ into Steve it’s ridiculous.”

“You think he’ll say something tomorrow?” Sam asks.

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know. I have a slight dilemma and since you’re my moral compass in matters of…pretty much everything, besides Steve obviously, I need you to tell me if I’m wrong to not tell Steve a…very important piece of information I have.” She’s referring, of course, to the fact that Bucky’s into men, which he told Natasha when she asked the other night. He hasn’t told Steve, and she doesn’t know if she should out him to Steve, even if she does it quietly, even when she knows Steve wouldn’t tell anyone.

Sam laughs a little. “Nat, I swear to God, you play your cards too close to your heart sometimes,” he says. “What’s the piece of information?”

“He told me he’s bi,” Natasha says quietly. “And I don’t think he’s told Steve. I mean maybe he just hasn’t mentioned it, or it would be weird to say something, but I just don’t want to out him if he doesn’t want me to…”

Sam’s listening to her, nodding slowly, as he does. When he’s not teasing her over something stupid, he’s taking her seriously, and she doesn’t know which she likes more. Not many people have taken her seriously for who she really is. Most people are afraid of her because she has an intimidating presence. And once people have judged her to be all sharp edges, they don’t want to see anything else.

“And you think that if you told Steve, even though Steve wouldn’t tell Bucky you told him, he’d know and that would be betraying Bucky?” Sam asks.

Natasha confirms with a nod and Sam considers it for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he says. He glances over to the couch, with Steve’s sleeping form hidden from view. “It would make his day to know it. But if Bucky wants him to know, I’m sure he’ll figure out a way to tell him.”

Natasha frowns. “And if he never tells him?”

Sam shrugs. “Then this will just have to be your own little soap opera, where you know the crucial piece of information that Janice has been keeping from Ricky, and seasons pass and everyone slowly finds out but Ricky still doesn’t fucking know, and then Janice ultimately tells him tearfully as Ricky’s laying on his hospital bed, dying of his terminal illness.”

Natasha cracks a smile but hits his arm. “Shut up,” she says, finishing her toast and getting up. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

\-- 

Tuesday. 9:23pm.

They’re going on in 7 minutes and Bucky’s bandmates are just finishing up their pre-show beers. Bucky usually joins them, because it loosens the tight knot of nerves in his stomach, but tonight he’s afraid to be anything but sober – at least at first.

Bucky’s been alternating between confidence and fear all day. He messed up multiple people’s drink orders at Starbucks because he couldn’t concentrate, thinking about what he’ll tell his bandmates about who Steve is. On the one hand, he wants to be honest with them and maybe they wouldn’t think it’s _that_ weird… But on the other hand, it’s totally weird and they’ll make fun of him for it. Who wouldn’t?

Bucky can’t just lie though and not introduce Steve at all. He doesn’t want Steve to feel like he’s ashamed. Besides, he’ll want to go over and talk to Steve between sets and after they finish. Providing Steve wants to stay.

Mark is talking about this girl – _‘a fucking bitch’_ – who’s destroyed his heart and put him off love for the rest of his life, according to him. Bucky wishes he’d just can it with this shit already, and he says as much, and Todd high fives him across the table.

“We can always count on Sober Bucky to speak his mind,” he says.

“Yeah what’s up, Buck, why aren’t you drinking tonight?” Alex asks. “You did fine on Friday night, you don’t need to stay sober so you don’t mess it up. I’m sure that one time was just an anomaly or something.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but he likes that his bandmates are actually perceptive sometimes. Even if Alex is wrong about the motivation behind this particular move. It makes Bucky think that _maybe_ they’d be understanding about the whole nude model thing… But as he thinks the words _nude model_ he knows they won’t be.

“Yeah I know,” he says, “I just want to do well. I invited some friends.”

“You invited some friends?” Todd asks, eyes wide, like he’s shocked Bucky even has friends.

“Yes, friends, people who willingly hang out with you because they enjoy your company and not because they’re in a band with you,” Bucky deadpans.

Todd laughs a harsh HA! and then asks, “Who are they?”

“This girl from work and her sort-of boyfriend I guess and one of her other friends,” Bucky says. It’s not untrue. He just doesn’t have to divulge the _whole_ truth.

“Cool,” Todd says, nodding. “So you want to be sober for them…?”

“I’ll drink after the first set,” Bucky says decisively. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. It’s really, surprisingly important. He hasn’t crushed this hard on anyone in a long time. In high school he was in ‘love’ with a girl named Maddie who was in AP classes with him. They sat next to each other and whispered jokes and commentary to each other, and even though Bucky dated other people, he still thought about Maddie in the background of it all. So sue him, he was a damn high schooler. When he lost his virginity in his car after a band competition in his junior year, it was to a flute player named Casey but in the morning, as he sat in church, he wondered what it would have been like to save it for Maddie.

He never actually went out with her, never made any moves at all. He couldn’t even bring himself to flirt with her, was the thing. All his friends were perplexed by it because Bucky flirted just fine with other people and dated a bunch of girls with varying degrees of success (one relationship lasted three days before Bucky messed it up by saying something he didn’t realize was rude; another lasted six months before Bucky started getting annoyed with everything the girl said and he broke it off). Through it all, he kept joking in class with Maddie and never making a move.

After graduation she went to Berkeley and seven months later, a picture came up on his Facebook News Feed of her engagement ring and the words “I SAID YES!!!!!!!!” There were 167 likes. Bucky Barnes was not one of them.

Bucky’s thinking vaguely about Maddie, and Steve, and how he doesn’t want to sit on this one for years and end up scrolling through Steve’s Facebook looking at pictures of his wedding, while drinking straight out of a bottle of rum and getting progressively drunker and more miserable about how he’s never had anything meaningful. (A video of the best man speech was posted, and when the guy said ‘After just one semester I already knew that Brad had found something really meaningful with Maddie, and that finding something like that is like striking gold. All jokes aside, I’m really happy they’ve gotten married, even if this means Brad probably won’t be much fun anymore.’ Bucky doesn’t mean to demonize or judge Brad, but fuck that rich kid thinking he can strap down the best girl around before anyone else can get her. _Maybe_ , Bucky drunkenly thought, or maybe said out loud, _I would’ve made my damn move but no! Somebody had to put a fucking ring on it!_ )

He’s thinking about all of this when Steve Rogers walks through the door looking like a damn miracle wearing no glasses, with his hair falling in his face and a plaid button up with rolled up sleeves falling open to reveal a white t-shirt, jeans, and black high top Converse. Bucky wants to rush over and kiss him right there.

Instead, he raises his hand in a wave.

Natasha spots him – Bucky hadn’t even noticed her and Sam come in next to Steve, he’s so preoccupied by how completely adorable and devastating Steve looks. How does he manage that? Bucky can’t decide if he wants to hug him or fuck him.

Nat waves back and comes over, leading the two boys. “Hey, there!” she says, smiling. He smiles back and stands up. Todd, Alex, and Mark are all watching them, taking in the sight of Natasha and not really noticing Sam or Steve behind her. Bucky can see it in their eyes, and he’s annoyed with them for not realizing that Steve is clearly the main event here.

“Hey, guys, I’m really excited you came!” Bucky says.

“It’s nice to properly meet you,” Sam says. “Sorry we’re a little late, this one,” he indicates Steve with his thumb, “couldn’t pick an outfit.”

Steve puts his head down in embarrassment. “I just wasn’t sure what was appropriate…” he muttered. “And everything has paint stains on it.” He glances up at Bucky with those _eyes_.

“Well you look great,” Bucky assures him, earning him a knowing look from five pairs of eyes. _Dammit._ His bandmates definitely know now, and Bucky’s only said four words to Steve so far.

He’s in deep.

“We’re going to get drinks,” Natasha says. She touches Sam’s hand with her own but doesn’t take it, then turns and goes to the bar.

“Good luck,” Steve says, giving Bucky, and then his bandmates, a smile.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, stupid smile and all, and feels like it’s the lamest thing he’s ever said. _Get it together, Barnes. You’re wearing clothes this time._

Steve turns and follows his friends, and Bucky sits back down to look at his friends’ grins.

“Oh my God.” Mark’s the one to say it. “You’re so into that little skinny guy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s obvious, whatever,” Bucky says, and he reaches for Alex’s drink and takes a big swig. He was wrong. He can’t do this sober. He doesn’t want to be taut like a wire ready to spring all night. “Let’s get up there. It’s 9:30.” He stands and walks toward the stage.

 

Bucky. Is. Hot.

This is something that Steve already knew from seeing Bucky naked. But something he hadn’t realized was that Bucky would be even hotter standing on a small raised platform in a club, holding a guitar, wearing a Kinks t-shirt and ripped jeans. They aren’t skinny jeans, exactly, but _God_ do they do good things for him.

Steve is gaping at him, sitting at a table not so close to the front that it’s weird, but not too far back. There are people clustered at tables around them, maybe 20 or 30 of them, and they’re all holding drinks and talking to each other while the band gets ready to start playing.

“You know they used to be called Fusion of the Empty Goose?” Steve says to Sam and Natasha, who are sitting to his right.

Sam barks a laugh. “You made that up.”

“Swear on my life.” Steve crosses himself seriously. “He told me.”

“Was he trying to impress you?” Natasha asks doubtfully, looking over at Bucky, who’s messing with the pedals on the floor as the lead singer steps up to the microphone.

“Hey everybody, let’s skip the intro and play some music!”

There’s a small cheer and Bucky looks up then, straight at Steve, and smiles wide before beginning to play the opening licks of a song.

Steve’s chest goes so tight that he thinks he might have an asthma attack, and wouldn’t that be a kicker? _Sorry I had to leave, Bucky, your smile took my breath away. Literally. Har har._

Bear Paw starts to play, quickly finding their stride. They’re good. They’re sort of indie-rock, which Steve likes. He likes most music, having been introduced to all genres by his mother. He was raised on children’s artists like Raffi and Tom Chapin, and she taught him songs they could sing together, his small and angelic voice joining her strong and sure one. These were songs from her own childhood, living with her grandparents after her parents died in a bombing in Ireland in the beginning of the Troubles. Some songs she taught Steve were in Gaelic while others were of Scottish origin from her college years, spent in Edinburgh, and others still were from her twenties and thirties living in New York after meeting an American man in Edinburgh, falling madly in love with him, and following him to America. That man left for Desert Storm shortly after, and never met his son.

Steve shakes his head a little, fixing his eyes on Bucky. He doesn’t want to make himself sad. Tonight’s supposed to be a good night.

Bucky looks concentrated, his tongue pressed between his lips, looking down at the guitar, then over at one or the other of his bandmates, then toward the audience. His eyes land on Steve fairly often, and every time they do, Steve’s heart leaps. Surely he’s just trying to be polite, looking at Steve because he invited him, but… Well, that begs the question: why did he invite him?

Steve thinks that maybe it’s because Bucky wants to be friends, like actual genuine friends, which Steve is definitely okay with. It’s not like he’s up to his ears in friends or anything, with Sam and Natasha being the closest, plus Tony, his best friend from high school who he still talks to sometimes even though he’s up at MIT doing God knows what.

Still, though, none of those friends are people he’s seriously attracted to (although if Natasha or Sam offered he doesn’t think he’s a strong enough person to say no). He also isn’t sure if he and Bucky could get past the naked posing thing to have a normal friendship; clearly Bucky thinks they can, since he invited Steve here to see his band. Maybe he’s right, they _can_ be friends, and Steve is just overthinking it.

Bucky’s band plays eight songs in the first set. The original songs are all sort of depressing and definitely niche, but Steve’s glad they play mostly originals. Most bands don’t and it makes it hard to get a feel for who they really are. The first song is a cover of Mr. Brightside which is pretty good and gets everybody in the audience excited. The second song is original and is about losing your virginity in the backseat of a car. It has some good lyrics that Steve likes. The third song is a cover of Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots which is also very well done. The fourth and fifth songs are both about heartbreak and are honestly pretty similar to one another; if they hadn’t paused for Mark to say something about love between them, Steve would have thought it was the same song. Still, it’s good, and Bucky plays very well. During the fifth song, Bucky has a solo that lasts a full sixty seconds. Sam and Natasha and Steve exchange impressed looks. The sixth song is about not being understood which is very teen-angst but Steve can’t pretend he doesn’t relate to it. The seventh song is a Coldplay cover; Sam and Natasha spend the whole time trying to figure out which song it is only to both be proven wrong. (It was Yellow, and Bucky held up the guitar part perfectly, even though it isn’t terribly difficult.) The eighth song is about how the current generation is fucked and it’s their parents’ fault. It’s kind of funny and Steve laughs a lot.

While they play, Steve finishes his beer and orders a cider and starts in on that. He’s kind of a lightweight, so by the time Bear Paw takes a break, he’s already tipsy.

After setting down his instrument and heading to the bar to get a drink, Bucky comes over to sit down at Steve’s table. He’s grinning and a little sweaty.

“You guys were great,” Steve says, trying not to gush or seem weird, but still be properly enthused.

“Thanks!” Bucky takes a swig from his beer. “I’m glad you’re liking it. What was your favorite so far?”

“The last one about fuck the grandpas!” Sam says. He’s on his way to drunk too; during the fifth song, he tried to start playing footsy with Steve, thinking it was Natasha.

“Oh ‘Fuck the Baby Boomers (and the so-called Greatest Generation)?’” Bucky laughs. “Yeah fuck those guys honestly, they think because they lived through World War II and the Depression and shit they can tell us we don’t have it hard?” He takes another drink. “Fuck them.”

Steve laughs perhaps a bit too hard at that, and Bucky turns his attention on him. “What was your favorite?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I kind of liked that second one you guys played.”

An expression passes through Bucky’s eyes but it’s quick and Steve doesn’t catch it. Bucky nods then says, “That’s called ‘Maybe We Should Have Found a Bed.’”

Steve furrows his eyebrows a little. “I didn’t feel like that was the moral of the song.”

“I didn’t pick the title,” Bucky says with an easy shrug, but it’s clear he agrees, as his eyes actually betray him this time over the rim of his glass as he lifts it to his lips again.

“Did you write that one?” Natasha asks with interest.

“We collaborate,” Bucky says in an off-hand tone that makes it clear that he did write it.

Steve thinks about that for a moment as there’s silence at the table; so Bucky, presumably, lost his virginity in high school, since the song said, ‘Junior year had me staring down the thirty yard line, Could never get you off my mind.’

“Some things were an exaggeration,” Bucky says after a moment. “But that’s art. Like you makin’ me a damned Greek god in that drawing from Sunday.”

Steve laughs. “Wasn’t me that did that, Bucky,” he says, “I’m just good at capturing life.”

He can see Sam and Natasha exchanging a look next to him.

Bucky bows and shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll have to do a drawing of you,” he says, “though it’d probably be just a little stick figure. And wouldn’t do you justice.”

“Well I am skinny,” Steve says with a shrug.

Bucky laughs. “Not that skinny.”

Before Steve can respond – because he’s trying to work out if they’re flirting or if he just _thinks_ they are; he still doesn’t know if Bucky’s even into men – Bucky says, “Oh! I looked up that Napoleon thing? That is nowhere on the internet.”

“What Napoleon thing?” Steve asks, confused.

“The Napoleon’s dick thing. I found nothing. I did, however, find loads of sites where people speculated that he only had one testicle. People also thought Hitler only had one testicle.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. I think you have to have balls to invade Russia, and they both did that, but hey.”

Steve laughs and Natasha says, “Damn straight!”

“Oh and I also found out there’s a museum in Iceland called The Icelandic Phallological Museum and it has 280 penises on display and gets 11,000 visitors a year,” Bucky adds, sounding like a tour guide.

“My kind of museum,” Steve says in a tone that’s suggestive enough that it shows there’s _meaning_ there – and the meaning is ‘I like dick.’ Bucky blinks for a moment, thrown, before glancing at Natasha. Steve isn’t sure quite why, but he can’t think it through, as he’s seeing spots before his vision. Why did he say that? Why would he say that? What if Bucky is totally, completely straight and all _whoa, no homo, bro_? That would be terrible for a whole slew of reasons, the least of which is a failed grade on the art project.

Before that train of thought can get too far from the station, though, Bucky says, “Yeah, mine too,” giving Steve a significant look.

And Steve – or the alcohol in him, or his relief, or all three – nods, and says, “Good to know.” _Jesus, who am I?_

Natasha’s laughing and Sam’s smirking. Steve nudges Natasha in the ribs and she says, “So Bucky, you’re really good. How long have you been playing?”

And this successfully launches the two of them into a discussion of different instruments, with Sam contributing that he played the flute in middle school, which results in him getting laughed at by all three of them. ( _It’s not a girly instrument! This is 2015 and gender is fake anyway!_ ) Natasha hits the table with her fist at that and they’re all laughing even harder when the bass player taps Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “it’s time to get back up there.”

Bucky stands up. “I’m gonna have to pack up a bit after,” he says, “but if you stick around we can have a drink or something.” His gaze dips to his empty glass on the table. “Another drink.”

“I can help break down,” Steve offers. “We all can.” He indicates Natasha and Sam as well, then glances at them. “Sorry. Just volunteered you.”

They’re both giving him knowing looks, laughter still trailing off, and he would be annoyed, but he’s in a damn good mood thanks to Bucky. He gestures to the stage. “Go. We’ll be waiting.”

Bucky grins, says, “Thanks, see you after!” and then heads off toward the stage, having a near-miss with a chair on the way, sidestepping at the last minute and sticking a thumbs up above his head for anyone who’d seen.

 

The second set goes as well as the first, which is a major miracle and for which Bucky thanks every deity he can think of. Even with the alcohol in his system, his fingers fly across the fretboard and pluck the strings expertly, the guitar a living extension of himself. He’d worried he wouldn’t be able to connect because he’d be too distracted by Steve in the audience and feeling watched by his eyes, but he’s connecting. He’s fucking glowing. He can feel it. He can _see_ it in the way Steve’s watching him. Bucky’s never felt so good during a gig; he’s on top of the world and even gets cocky enough to lift the guitar behind his head and play it backwards, turning around, showing not only the fingerwork but his ass to the audience, and that gets a huge cheer. Usually he doesn’t do it because it feels showboat-y but he doesn’t care right now.  He wants Steve to think he’s hot. _Which he could think, because he’s into guys!_

He practically said it. No. He _did_ say it. And fuck Natasha for not telling him. Bucky wonders if she told Steve about him, then decides she probably did.

While he plays, Bucky allows himself to bask in the stage lights and the look on Steve’s face and the fact that he’s here, he’s queer, and he’s hot as all get-out.

_Thank you, Buddha._

The set ends too quickly and Bucky wishes it would go on forever. But canned music takes over the speakers in the club and Bucky sets down his guitar, turns to the guys. “That was awesome,” he says with a huge grin.

They’re all smiling too; they could feel it. It wasn’t just him. It was a good show. “Let’s break down then get some drinks,” Todd says. “I’m not bothering with any boobs tonight.”

“Bucky’s got something to bother with though,” Mark says, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head over to where Steve’s walking toward the stage.

Bucky punches him in the gut and steps down off the stage. “Hey!” he greets him. Steve’s hair is so golden in the stage lights.

“That was really good,” Steve says sincerely. “That guitar thing without even looking? Jesus. Good job, Jimi.”

Bucky grins. “I’m going to assume you’re referring to Hendrix and not what my dad calls me?”

Steve laughs. “Obviously I was referring to what your dad calls you, the guitar thing wasn’t _that_ impressive and you always were like a son to me.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Oh, God, that’s very inappropriate then.”

Steve laughs and Bucky could go on and on like this for the rest of his life but he hears a wolf whistle from behind him.

“Get a room!” Todd shouts.

“Or help break down!” Mark adds.

Bucky nods his head back to them. “I have to help. You don’t have to though. I’ll be done soon. We just need to break everything down, get it all in the cases, and take it into the back room so we can carry it home.”

“You carry it home?” Steve asks.

“Do _you_ want to own a van in New York City?” Bucky asks.

“Guess not.” Steve’s already stepping up onto the stage. “What can I do?”

Sam and Natasha come up too, and Bucky insists that they _really_ don’t have to help, but they do anyway. Sam helps Alex carry the drums back into the green room and Steve and Bucky pack up Bucky’s guitars and carry them back. Bucky very nearly walks into a wall because he’s staring at Steve carrying the guitar case, and that _shirt_ , and those _jeans_ …

Once everything has been packed up and put in the green room, Sam and Natasha head toward the bar, closely followed by the rest of the band. Bucky’s about to join them when Steve says, “Oh, look,” and points to a pick that’s been dropped on the stage.

“Oops.” Bucky leans over and picks it up, and he’s about to pocket it, but changes his mind. “I’ll take this back to the green room,” he says coyly. “Want to keep me company?” His heart is _thudthudthudding_.

Steve laughs at him. “Yeah because it’s a long, scary walk,” but Bucky’s already headed back through the door and Steve follows him so as not to be rude.

The heavy metal song – which _probably_ has lyrics but they aren’t discernible – that’s playing now is muffled in the back. The walls of the green room are painted black, covered with signatures of every band that’s played here in silver sharpie. The equipment is in a corner, all packed up and ready to be carried home later.

Bucky kneels down and puts the pick into one of his guitar cases.

The room is silent. The floor vibrates slightly from the music playing outside.

There’s a rushing in Bucky’s ears as he stands up and moves closer to Steve. “I’m glad you came,” he says softly.

Steve’s face is tilted up, and he’s looking at Bucky with an expression that is absolutely unmistakable: he’s expectant, almost daring. He’s waiting for Bucky to make a move. Bucky wonders how many drinks he’s had that have emboldened him.

Normally, Bucky might ask permission with a soft, ‘Can I kiss you now?’ But he doesn’t need to ask, not with the look in Steve’s eyes right now. He brings up his right hand to rest gently on Steve’s cheek, and as soon as he’s touched him, he’s released a floodgate. There’s suddenly too much space between them. He closes it rapidly, not bothering with drawing it out, because they’ve been doing enough of that the past few weeks.

He kisses him, pressing his lips firmly to Steve’s, head tilted to the side. He’s not holding anything back, but as Steve’s right hand comes to rest on Bucky’s hip and his other snakes up through Bucky’s hair, it’s clear that Steve isn’t going to hold back either. The kiss is sloppy at first, as there’s too much built-up tension to be gentle, and Steve’s mouth tastes of alcohol, but they find their rhythm, and Steve’s pushing against him. Bucky stumbles back against the wall, breaking the kiss, but Steve presses up to him and Bucky’s hands on his back pull him in tight and they’re kissing again.

Steve’s hips grind against Bucky’s, and Bucky’s going to have a problem in a minute if they don’t slow down. But he doesn’t care. He’s been wanting this too long as he watched every Sunday those lips parted slightly in concentration, staring at the easel, thin arms and fingers moving with grace as Steve basked in his element.

Bucky gasps a little as Steve bites down on his lower lip, and it’s this that startles Steve into pulling away. Bucky can’t tell if it was the gasp or the bite itself, but Steve’s eyes are wild and full of, yes, desire, but also fear and shock.

Bucky starts to say something but his mind is still foggy with want and he can’t think of any words before Steve turns and high-tails it out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos on the last chapter genuinely made me cry. Thank you all so, so much for enjoying this fic! It means way more than you could know.


	8. Clint Barton Makes an Appearance, and Starbucks is Host to an Awkward Encounter, Officiated by Natasha Romanoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Thank you guys SO much for the comments and kudos and stuff after the last chapter. That was mindblowing. You're all wonderful people.

Tuesday. 11:57pm.

A frantic, whispered conversation is taking place in the kitchen while Steve sits on the sofa, holding a mug of tea that’s steadily going cold, even in the July heat that seeps into the apartment through the windows and walls. Outside, the night continues on; a siren starts up and blares down the street. It seems, to Steve, that when emergencies happen, they’re always at night.

His mother died at night.

_“Steve,” she whispered, clutching his hand as tightly as she could – and it was pathetic, and it was sad. “Please, honey, please don’t be-”_

_But she was cut off by a coughing fit that took the air from her, and those were the last words she spoke before slipping into unconsciousness, and finally, into the black of nothing, or the light of Heaven, or another life, or…something. Or. Nothing._

His knuckles whiten around the mug. He shouldn’t think of these things. He shouldn’t be thinking of them now, not after such a good night. Not after getting to see Bucky play – and he was so _talented_. The band was really good, and Steve had wanted to gush some more and tell Bucky so. Now, who knows if he’ll ever get to see Bucky again?

The whispered conversation is escalating into actual speaking, and Steve can hear the individual words now.

“ _No,_ we need to talk to him!” Sam is insisting. “We need to figure out what the hell happened that had him coming and grabbing us and bolting for the street!”

“We need to give him time, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it,” Natasha argues.

They’re both right. Steve needs to talk about it. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to admit that he and Bucky kissed, and that it was heady and _amazing_ , that it filled him with desire that drove away any bad feelings. That the night was the best one he’d had in a long time, barring the fact that he’s sitting on the couch now, staring at the wall. Barring the fact that he ran away as soon as he got his wits about himself.

“Are you not _curious_?” Sam demands from the kitchen, his voice a hiss.

It’s the tone that makes Steve set down his tea and stand up. “Guys,” he says tiredly, “please. Don’t argue. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you what happened. Just…don’t fight on account of me.”

They’re both staring at him with wide eyes, though Sam looks distinctly triumphant while Natasha’s lips are pressed into a line.

Presently, they’re all sitting in a circle on the kitchen floor, passing around a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer. Steve scoops out a big spoonful and sucks it, slowly, pursing his lips around it and thinking of Bucky… Bucky’s lips, wrapped around ice cream, or licking a popsicle… _Oh God._

“Okay. So we went into the back,” Steve says. “Because Bucky dropped a pick and wanted to take it back and put it with the rest of his stuff.” He passes the ice cream to Natasha. She and Sam are both listening raptly, laser-focused on him. “And we went into the green room again, and then we basically just… Well he kissed me and I kissed back and we started making out-” He pointedly ignores Natasha’s little squeal and the way she claps her hand over her own mouth, and he certainly doesn’t give any attention to Sam’s fist pump in the air. “And it was really awesome. And it was just. I don’t know. I was kissing him and feeling great and all of a sudden I felt _so guilty_ , I can’t describe it… I guess I just felt like… How could I? You know? How could I allow myself to have that right now?” He slumps his shoulders forward, looks at his lap, and Sam shoves the ice cream into his hands again. Steve holds it, but doesn’t eat anything.

He isn’t looking at them but he knows they’re trying to figure out which of them is going to respond. Eventually, it’s Sam who says, “You know, man, you’re allowed to enjoy stuff. You’re allowed to have a good time. You’re _supposed_ to. You can’t be the one holding yourself back in your grief.”

Steve bites his lip. He knows Sam’s right, in theory, he knows it’s what he’d tell other people. And maybe he could get past that, but it’s not the only thing. What if Bucky wants more? What if that kiss was going to lead to Bucky saying, ‘You want to get dinner sometime?’ And Steve cannot do that. Not right now. He can’t get into a new relationship because how is he supposed to hold up a relationship when he can barely hold up his own head sometimes? Bucky’s only seen him at his best. He hasn’t had to listen to the sobs that wrack his body as Steve sits in the shower, letting the hot water turn slowly to cold on his back as he cries because he just couldn’t hold it in for one moment longer.

Steve’s in no shape to be starting out anything right now. And yes, it _would_ feel like betrayal. Even if it was what his mother would want. When she was sick and he was taking care of her, she used to tell him to leave her at home alone and go out and spend time with friends. He knew that he shouldn’t, though, so he would sit at her bedside and hold the trash can after her chemo and stroke her back and pretend he didn’t notice when she cried. He was a good son. He was a _loyal_ son. He has to remain loyal. He can’t start anything new now. He can’t turn his back on his sadness and her memory. Who is Steve Rogers if he isn’t loyal and good?

He can’t say all of this. It will only make them more concerned than they already are. “I know,” he says quietly. “But it was just too much.”

Natasha makes a sound in her throat and touches her foot to Steve’s. “You don’t have to do something if you really don’t want to,” she says, “but don’t hold yourself back because you’re afraid, or guilty, or something. Bucky’s a really nice guy.”

Steve groans. “Well I’ll probably never see _Bucky_ again.” The way he says the name betrays him – he means to fill it with annoyance, but instead he sounds a little bitter and a little infatuated. _Bucky_. Bucky, who for some reason, wanted to kiss him. Bucky, who’s gorgeous and has the most beautiful face and whose lips are in a constant pout. Bucky, easily the most attractive and nicest guy who’s ever wanted to kiss Steve. Bucky, who Steve ran from.

“Sure you will, you’ll see him Sunday,” Natasha replies easily.

Steve groans again; he hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, I highly doubt it,” he says. “I really don’t think he’ll be interested in doing me any favors now that I’ve kissed and run.”

Natasha _hmm_ s. “We’ll see,” she says, pulling up her work calendar on her phone. “We shall see.”

\--

Tuesday. 11:57pm.

Normally, Bucky probably would have just gone and found someone else to have a good time with. There were enough people in the bar who were impressed enough with him that they would have been willing. And Bucky knows he’s an attractive guy. So he could have.

But instead he’s lying face-down on Clint Barton’s bed.

Bucky loves his bandmates and all of their quirks and various skills – or sometimes, lack thereof. They aren’t great conversationalists and whenever they’re together, the talk usually turns into innuendos that _barely_ make sense and weird jokes. Bucky doesn’t mind that because he loves weird jokes and innuendos just as much as the next guy… But tonight, he doesn’t need his bandmates. He needs someone who’s known him practically forever, and the only such someone who currently lives in New York is Clint.

Bucky and Clint grew up together in various stages of friendship. They met in elementary school on the playground when Clint claimed he could jump off a swing and do a flip, and no one believed him but Bucky. (He couldn’t, and he had a broken arm to show for it. Bucky was the first to sign his cast.) They were quick friends, but things got rockier in middle school. For several years they loathed each other for some imagined slight or another, but for several more after that, Bucky was at Clint’s house more often than he was at his own. Clint was the first person to know Bucky thought gay porn was kind of hot; Bucky was the first to know when Clint’s parents got divorced. Clint was in the gaming club while Bucky was in the band, and those things ended up with them on pretty much the same level of High School Cool, which was to say, they were not. Bucky was delighted when Clint decided to go to college in the city, even though Bucky’s been busy with his band and work and Clint’s been busy with school. This is the first summer break that Clint’s spent in the city, because he has an internship, which Bucky is grateful for when things like this happen, so he can come over to Clint’s and faceplant on his bed, and Clint won’t even bat an eye.

“You’re drunk,” Clint guesses, fiddling with the volume on his hearing aids, looking down at Bucky.

“No,” Bucky mumbles into the sheets.

“Okay. You’re…high?”

“No,” Bucky mumbles a little more emphatically.

“Okay… You just…missed me?”

Bucky rolls over and groans. “I have a problem, and you happen to be the only person who I have enough dirt on that I know you won’t go telling everyone.”

Clint laughs. “Okay, this I have to hear.” He sits down in his desk chair. “Shoot.”

“Okay.” Bucky sits up and faces him, takes a deep breath, and launches into a confession of the whole thing. Every naked detail. Clint, bless him, doesn’t even try to guard his expression. He just laughs and at one point picks up a shirt from his floor and throws it at Bucky, grinning. He leans in like he’s watching the most interesting movie he’s ever seen. Bucky tells him about each session in detail, not realizing how much he’s wanted to tell someone all of this. He tells him about Natasha, and he goes on about Steve for long enough that Clint groans for him to just _shut up, please_. He tells him about the gig, and the kiss. And how Steve ran. “I just really was hoping this was going to be a real thing. I was hoping he was into me, and we could go on a date or something… I mean I like being single and having one night stands and shit but it does get a little tiring and I don’t know, I just think Steve seems like somebody I could really get along with. He’s funny and adorable and I want to get to know him better, you know, when I’m not naked. And that’s what tonight was for but then he ran away and I don’t know if I fucked it up or why or how.” When he finishes, he takes a deep breath and screws up the courage to look Clint right in the eye.

Clint’s just shaking his head. “You’re so far gone for this kid,” he says. “Like, really. You’re way into him.”

“I _know_.” Bucky sighs deeply. “So. That’s my issue. That’s why I’m here.”

Clint considers him for a moment and then says, “Okay. Well. That is sort of a dilemma. You’re right. I mean everything was really obvious until he ran away. I was already planning your honeymoon. Lots of sex, lots of beaches.”

Bucky groans. “Don’t joke! I mean it’s not like I wanted to marry him or anything I just thought, well at first he’d be a good night, but then I thought, maybe he’d be a good…” He takes a deep breath and says the word on the exhale, “Boyfriend.”

Clint bugs his eyes out. “Boyfriend?” he repeats.

“Yes. Boyfriend.” Bucky traces the pattern on the sheet with his calloused index finger.

Clint’s silent for a moment, so much so that Bucky looks up at him and sees that Clint’s just _staring_ at Bucky. “You haven’t dated since…”

“I know,” Bucky says.

“I mean if you could even call that dating,” Clint adds.

Bucky bites his lip and doesn’t respond. They’ve had _this_ conversation before and he isn’t interested in having it again.

“Well,” Clint continues when he can see that Bucky’s not eager to travel down this road. He claps his hands together. “Guess all you can do is delete the guy’s number and never go to his house again, or you could show up on Sunday naked and ready to go.”

Bucky frowns deeply. “Fuck. I don’t like either of those options.”

Clint looks at him challengingly and shrugs. “Too bad, this is the real world, sweetheart.” He adopts a deep Brooklyn accent. Bucky rolls his eyes and falls back on his bed.

“I’m claiming this,” Bucky announces. “This is my bed now. Speak now or forever hold your peace. But if you speak now I might start _crying_.”

“No!” Clint shrieks, jumping up to see if he can find something for Bucky to wear. “No! Please. No tears. I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you started _crying_ , man.”

Bucky looks up at him, makes his lip tremble a little, and Clint’s eyes go wide. “Please, I’m serious, I’m emotionally constipated, please! Don’t do this to me!”

Bucky can only hold the look for a moment before he laughs a little. “Emotionally constipated? Didn’t know you were so self-aware.”

Clint holds up a choice finger. “Fuck you, man,” he says.

Bucky laughs, but it isn’t quite as real as it usually is.

\--

Friday. 11:32am. Starbucks.

Bucky’s had plenty of time to chew it all over, and he still has no idea what he wants to do about the Steve Problem. Steve hasn’t reached out to him at all – not to cancel the session, nor to apologize for running off. Does he assume that any ongoing Sunday plans they used to have are canceled now for good? Bucky doesn’t _want_ that – he wants to go back to Steve’s, the tiny apartment with the big windows and the easel. The little artist, who kissed like he meant it, right before he ran out of the room.

Bucky pops a lid onto a cup with too much force and the drink sloshes on the counter. He glances up to see if the customer noticed – she did, and she’s judging him ( _sheesh, lady, you ever had a bad week?_ ) – and he mops it up, checks the level of the coffee still in the cup, and decides it’s not worth deeming a mistake. He just puts the lid on a little more carefully and hands it to her with an apologetic smile. He holds his breath to see if she’ll say anything, but the Lord happens to smile on him, and she just walks out.

Natasha is working today. Bucky wishes she weren’t; he wishes he never had to see her again, and then he could blow off Steve in peace without having to ever face what he’s done. As it is, if he does that, she’ll know. And she’ll judge him. She might say something; she might knock him out with her big toe; she might hate him. He doesn’t want Natasha to hate him. She’s his favorite co-worker, though today is blessedly busy enough that he doesn’t have to _talk_ to her. He doesn’t know what he’d say if he did.

He goes into the back to restock while there’s a lull, and as he’s standing amidst the metal shelving units, it occurs to him that Natasha is not the only reason he can’t blow Steve off. Bucky’s been rejected before, and it’s never hurt this bad. This feels like it’s personal. Steve knows Bucky, they’ve talked and joked. Steve’s seen Bucky naked. Bucky feels like they’re on the next level, the level that at least warrants an explanation for why Steve ran so suddenly. And if he never talks to Steve again, he’ll never get the explanation.

Also…Steve is hot, and funny, and a damn talented artist, and Bucky can’t just let that go.

As he walks back out into the front, he’s startled to see Natasha talking to Steve. _Steve._

Bucky nearly turns and runs back into the stockroom. He can’t see Steve. He hasn’t prepared for this at all. What if Steve is actually here to talk to him? What if he’s going to say something crushing like, You’re really great Bucky but I don’t feel that way about you and it was awful that you kissed me and I never want to see you again.

The fact that Steve seems like such a nice guy would make such a rejection sting even worse.

Instead, some instinct of self-preservation kicking in, Bucky walks over to the counter. “Hey, Steve,” he says with a smile.

Steve looks alarmed to see him. “Oh. Hi, Bucky.” His cheeks redden.

“Steve, Bucky was just saying he’s looking forward to your drawing session on Sunday,” Natasha says. She throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky’s eyes bug out in surprise. “And he said he’d bring snacks, too.”

Steve looks surprised and terrified at the same time. “Oh! Uh. Okay? There’s no need for snacks, Bucky…” Steve makes eye contact with Bucky for the first time since Bucky came out of the stockroom.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says quickly. “I don’t mind.” _Fuck you, Natasha. Fuck. You._ What’s she even doing? Why? Does she want to utterly humiliate him? Does she want him to die of embarrassment right here? She would have to clean it up if he did.

“Well, um. I guess I’ll get the usual, Nat?” Steve says, shifting awkwardly.

“Name?” Natasha asks in her distant, Polite Barista voice.

“Oh, uh, Hamilton,” Steve says offhandedly.

Bucky’s eyebrows crease but he doesn’t say anything. He considers busying himself with something, or heading back into the stockroom, but instead he just stands there, right at the counter, right in front of Steve.

“You know it was really cool when you played the guitar behind your back,” Steve says suddenly.

Bucky would be less surprised if an alien army descended upon Manhattan.

“Uh. Thanks,” he says. _You’re blowing this, Barnes._

“You’re good,” Steve says. Now it’s Bucky who won’t look at him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles again.

Natasha takes her sweet time making Steve’s drink. Bucky knows that she can make it at least three times faster than she is now, and he wants very much to hate her for it.

But the fact of the matter is that she’s solved a problem for him. Now he knows that he and Steve are still on for Sunday, and it’s a huge relief, despite the fact that the awkwardness between them could be slurped up with a straw.

When it becomes clear that neither of them has anything else to say, and Bucky can’t get the feeling of Steve’s lips on his, and his _hips_ … out of his head, he walks away, tossing up a little wave of goodbye and a muttered, “See you Sunday.”

And he heads back into the stockroom, having been brave enough for the time being.

\--

Friday. 11:10am.

Steve can’t concentrate. He hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything all week, since the kiss. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten, he’s a mess, basically, and all because of the stupidly gorgeous boy who for whatever reason wanted to kiss him and subsequently opened the gate for Steve to ruin everything.

Steve can’t be in a relationship. He knows that. He’s sure. But Bucky is just so…

Class ends and Steve gets up, slings his bag over his shoulder. One of his friends, Peter, comes over to him and says, “Hey, Steve, you okay? I’m pretty sure you didn’t pay attention at all during that.”

Steve laughs – hollow. “Yeah, I’m okay, just distracted right now.”

Peter frowns. “You want to get lunch or something? We can talk about whatever…”

Steve shakes his head quickly; he’d promised Natasha he’d come to Starbucks after class to chat and keep her company for a few minutes in the middle of her shift. Besides, he doesn’t feel like pretending everything’s good and normal right now. It isn’t. The only things keeping him afloat are the art projects he’s working on, and Bucky. And right now Bucky’s more a source of stress than anything.

“Okay well, text me if you want to hang out,” Peter says with an open smile. “We should catch up.”

“Yeah definitely. Maybe next week?” Steve suggests, mostly out of politeness. Peter’s a great guy and Steve likes him, but he has no desire to do anything social these days besides spend time with Sam and Nat, which doesn’t count, and see Bucky.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent just how much he thinks about Bucky, and how much he really likes spending time with Bucky. But the kiss messed everything up.

Steve doesn’t know if he’ll even ever see Bucky again. He’d talked about it to Sam and Natasha the night before, asking their opinions – did they think Bucky would want to come? Should Steve ask if he was coming and risk pressuring him into something he didn’t want to do? Should Steve not say anything and just let Bucky do what he wants? That’s been his strategy so far, because he doesn’t want Bucky to feel like he has to come out of obligation when Steve was so incredibly rude. If anything, Steve wants him to come so he can apologize.

Of course, it occurred to him to apologize via text, but that would be pressure too, he reasons.

Natasha tells Steve not to worry, that Bucky will either show or not. And Steve tells her that it’s the stress of wondering that’s driving him insane.

The conversation gets derailed then but Natasha invites him to Starbucks shortly afterward. Steve agrees, because he needs a distraction from thoughts of Bucky and Nat needs a distraction from the boredom of work.

Steve walks into Starbucks and sighs, leaning against the counter, relieved that there are only a few customers finishing their drinks at some of the tables. Natasha seems to be the only one working, and Steve says, “My ceramics professor is the biggest dick in the world. He always makes fun of the students who aren’t good at it, but it’s just Ceramics I, so most people are taking it because they have to for a requirement, like me for example, and aren’t that good at it… And he doesn’t seem to get that. He acts like everyone wants to be perfect at it, and yeah I want to be good, but he’s hard on us and everyone’s just trying their best. It makes me really mad too because I think some of the other people take him really personally and they think they aren’t good artists at all, you know, because they can’t do ceramics they aren’t good at charcoal or paint or whatever.”

“Do you ever say anything?” Natasha asks with a knowing quirk of her eyebrow.

“Yeah I did once and he shut me down and started picking apart my work, like ‘Rogers you can’t talk when all I see there is a lump with some paint on it.’” He sighs. “But I still just want to sock him in the jaw sometimes because he obviously-”

He cuts off as he sees, over Natasha’s shoulder, _Bucky_ appear in the doorway from the stockroom. Steve immediately turns his gaze back to Natasha, pretending he didn’t even notice, and the expression on her face is smug. Her back is to Bucky but she surely knows what he’s doing. Steve isn’t looking but he knows Bucky will probably turn around and avoid Steve. Steve did majorly fuck up, after all, and it was insulting as hell. If Bucky comes over, Steve decides, he’ll apologize.

But Bucky won’t come over. Steve’s convinced, until Bucky is standing right there in front of him, saying, “Hey, Steve.”

Steve probably makes a stupid face of surprise and, blushing, says, “Oh. Hi, Bucky.” _Apologize. You should apologize._ But apologies require explanations, and what explanation does he have? _I’m just in the middle of this period of depression and I don’t want to drag you down. I can’t lead you on and I can’t have a relationship._

“Steve,” Natasha says, throwing her arm around Bucky, and Steve has no idea what she’s about to do, but he doesn’t like it. Natasha always means well but sometimes she can be too meddling. Everything works out in the end, _usually_ , but Steve wishes she’d just take a back seat in some things. Like in this. “Bucky was just saying he’s looking forward to your drawing session on Sunday. And he said he’d bring snacks, too.”

Steve knows that could be true or false, but Bucky doesn’t deny it. So whether or not Natasha is telling the truth, it has the likely desired effect of deciding that Bucky will, in fact, come for the next session.

“Oh!” Steve says, because he has to say _something_. But his heart is in his shoes and it’s beating fast. “Uh. Okay? There’s no need for snacks, Bucky…” _Natasha is a little shit,_ he wants to add, but doesn’t. He looks directly into Bucky’s eyes, and in doing so, realizes he’s been avoiding his gaze. Oops.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, “I don’t mind.” He’s blushing too. What is he thinking? Did he take it personally? Does he regret it? Steve can’t tell.

“Well, um,” Steve says to fill the silence, “I guess I’ll get the usual, Nat?”

“Name?” Natasha asks, sliding into their usual routine.

“Oh, uh, Hamilton,” Steve throws out the first name that comes to mind.

There’s a silence and Bucky doesn’t walk away. Steve’s surprised by this. So maybe his feelings weren’t really hurt? Maybe he writes it off as a weird drunken thing, and he’s moved on? Or are they going to pretend it never happened?

“You know it was really cool when you played the guitar behind your back,” Steve offers, because it was, and he might have already said something to that effect to Bucky, but maybe he didn’t. And anyway, he just needs something to say right now. He needs, also, to show Bucky that he doesn’t dislike him and he isn’t upset.

“Uh. Thanks,” Bucky says, looking startled.

 _Why did you continue standing here if you didn’t expect me to talk to you?_ Steve thinks. “You’re good,” he says instead. Bucky avoids eye contact as he thanks Steve.

Silence settles neatly around and between them again and Steve can’t think of anything that will break it this time. Complimenting him again would be coming on a little strong, while asking a question might lock Bucky into a conversation he doesn’t want to be in.

Steve’s about a mile deep in overthinking the simple interaction when Bucky turns and leaves with a “See you Sunday.”

Steve lets out a deep breath. Natasha comes and gives him his coffee. Steve looks at her coldly and sighs deeply. She snorts a little and then Steve shoves a ten dollar bill in her hand.

“Put the change in the tip jar,” he says as he turns around. He knows that half of it will go to Bucky. It isn’t enough to make up for what he did, of course, but it might help him sleep better tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be delayed slightly because I'm heading back to college tomorrow to start my sophomore year and I'll be moving in and attending my first week of classes, so I'm not sure when writing will fit into my schedule just yet. I'll try to get the next chapter up ASAP though!


	9. Bucky Finds Himself Naked Once More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your patience during my mini-hiatus which didn't last as long as I'd anticipated it would. Not sure how frequent updates will be now that school's happening and I'm in a couple of clubs, plus classes are picking up momentum. Either way, I will try to at least have something posted every week!
> 
> This chapter is a little bit shorter than the others, but that's because I really wanted this scene to stand alone. I hope you all enjoy!

Bucky gets a text from Natasha that wakes him up on Sunday morning. It’s a list of random foods, and he scrolls through it, confused, before it’s followed up by another text. The buzz of his phone in his hands has never felt so harsh. **Steve’s allergies** , it says.

His eyes widen and he scrolls up to look through the list again. _Jesus H Christ._ Is there anything Steve isn’t allergic to? No wonder he’s so thin, he can’t eat anything.

The text reminds him, though, of two unpleasant facts: one, he’s going to Steve’s for another naked drawing session, and it is not the reason he wants to be naked in Steve’s apartment. This, he has fully admitted to himself. And it sucks. A lot.

The second unpleasant fact: he needs to bring a _snack_. Because Natasha said he would.

He responds with a **fuck you and how do you have my number?** and lets his head fall back against the pillow. He is not in the mood. He’s tired; he’s a little hungover; he’s hurt. The night before, they played a show and he had a few too many drinks afterward. Because it _hurts_ that he got rejected so fully by Steve. The meeting at Starbucks hadn’t included a heartfelt apology or ‘Let’s try this again’ or ‘I like you too, that was just too fast,’ or anything that he might have hoped it would involve. So he’s alone. And normally he pretends he doesn’t care, he tells himself he’s too busy and he has music and the band – but he does. He cares. He wants a relationship, and now he wants it with Steve.

**Everyone’s phone number is on the wall next to the schedule and I’m at work super bored. Have fun today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

Her exclamation marks taunt him, and he knows that she knew he’d find it annoying, and she did it anyway. Because she’s just _like_ that.

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sits up slowly. It’s just after 11. He needs to get his shit together, go buy a snack that doesn’t contain basically any food at all, and then go to Steve’s. The issue is, as much as he doesn’t want to want this, his heart beats faster just thinking about it, and the feeling of Steve’s lips against his fills his mind for a moment before he pushes it away.

There’s no point in wanting this. There’s no chance for it to happen. The farther he lets this go, the more it will hurt.

 

And yet, two hours later, he’s showered and holding potato chips, feeling like he’s already naked as he knocks on Steve’s door. Every moment the wood of the door stares at him as Steve doesn’t open it, his heart sinks lower and lower. He’s got it bad, and nothing will ever come of it. Worse, actually – something did come of it, and they kissed, and Bucky thought it was so good. And Steve clearly disagreed.

And here Bucky is with a bag of Herr’s in one hand and his heart in the other.

Steve opens the door with a smile. His glasses are up on top of his head, hair pushed back behind them, and Bucky wants to melt. How can someone be so perfect, and so off-limits? Bucky won’t try anything again; he knows a rejection when he sees one. But it’ll take everything he has to stay away and keep this platonic.

“Hi,” Steve says, stepping aside to let Bucky in. He looks nervous, and Bucky can’t blame him. Is he worried Bucky will kiss him again?

“Hey,” Bucky replies, walking through the door, brushing past Steve, feeling the air of him against his shoulder. _Jesus_. “I just wanted to say, quickly, before we start…” He hesitates, having gotten this far and run out of courage. “Uh.”

“Do you want to sit?” Steve asks. “And you really _didn’t_ have to bring any snack, that’s just…not necessary.” He looks a little annoyed and Bucky doesn’t know if it’s because he’s annoyed with Natasha, because he guesses it wasn’t Bucky’s idea to bring the food, or if he’s annoyed with Bucky for bringing it and making the whole situation too familiar.

Bucky takes a seat on the couch, putting the chips on the coffee table. He puts his hands on his knees as Steve sits down next to him. Bucky takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m sorry for kissing you,” all in one exhale. “I shouldn’t have. It was wrong. I didn’t ask permission, and I feel gross about it, and I’m really sorry. I misread your signals…” He trails off. He was so wrong. He thought Steve liked him. So wrong.

“No,” Steve says, seeming to steel himself. Bucky waits for the rejection that just won’t stop delivering. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it. I did. I enjoyed it. You read the signals right.” He’s looking Bucky in the eyes, but suddenly averts his gaze as he says, “I like you, Bucky.” He clears his throat; Bucky leans forward, toward him, without realizing. He doesn’t quite believe that Steve is really saying these words, and even if he is, that they’re the ones he means to use. Surely, he actually means something else, doesn’t he?

“It’s a little complicated,” Steve continues. And there it is, the rejection, delivering after all. “I can’t do this right now.” He motions between them. “I mean I don’t even know if that’s what you want. I don’t know if it was a fluke or an accident or what, for you, but…for me…” He clears his throat again, and Bucky holds his breath. “I like you, and that’s a problem, right now. I can’t have a relationship. I can’t even date. It’s just not in the cards, I’m not in a good enough place for that, it wouldn’t be healthy – for you, for me… And I’m sorry, I’m going on about why we shouldn’t date when I don’t even know if you want to, and this is probably so awkward now.” He squints his eyes tight, scrunches up his nose. “I’m sorry,” he adds, as if he hasn’t already said it enough.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to any of that. Steve’s too polite, he’s too formal, he’s too apologetic. He’s too pretty, he’s too funny, he’s too talented. Too perfect. And Bucky barely even knows him. He can only imagine how he would seem once Bucky gets to crawl into all the small spaces in his mind and know him inside out.

“Please don’t apologize any more,” Bucky says. “You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t do anything. I…I don’t expect a relationship. That isn’t to say I don’t _want_ one, but it’s okay, I understand that you have your reasons.” Even if he’s curious as hell, his mother raised him better than to ask point-blank.

Steve swallows. “And I shouldn’t have assumed you even wanted a relationship, I just…” He shrugs.

Bucky does want a relationship, wants it in his chest, he knows because of how it swells when Steve’s arm gets too close to his, and when, even if he’s at work, or band practice, or in a bar chatting to someone else, the thought of Steve makes it rise and fall faster. But he isn’t going to say it because he wants to walk away today with some of his pride left intact. He isn’t going to beg, or give Steve a guilt trip by saying that yes, he would very much like a relationship.

“Anyway!” Steve exclaims, clapping his hands together. “Everything’s all good?”

“Yeah, everything’s all good,” Bucky says with a smile, even though he feels like he’s falling. Falling in love, falling away from Steve. Steve’s pushing him. And Bucky will let it happen. Because he can’t make Steve feel some way he doesn’t. He can’t make Steve think he’s ready for a relationship if he’s not.

“Great,” Steve says, and he clears his throat. “So let’s get back to it then?”

“Sure, let’s get back to it,” Bucky says on an exhale.

 

Soon enough, Bucky’s naked and Steve’s trying not to notice too much, all the while still drawing him, every inch of him. He glances up. Bucky looks amazing, as usual, of course. He'd expected and prepared himself for this - he'd psyched himself up, said, _You don’t want this, Steve_. And he doesn’t. Well, Bucky’s _body_ , he wants. Bucky’s lips and those hands and that –

This is proving much more difficult than Steve has prepared himself for. Bucky is truly something. And the issue is that Steve can lie and tell himself how much he only wants Bucky’s body, but when faced with the reality that is Bucky, he realizes that he wants a whole lot more than just his body. Steve wants everything about Bucky. He wants his wit, his intelligence, he wants to watch Bucky practice guitar, tongue pressed between his lips, while he concentrates…

“Shit,” he mutters to himself as he accidentally smudges a spot on Bucky’s cheek with the side of his hand.

Bucky is standing again, leaning against the wall this time, one bare foot pressed flat against it, knee out. His head is turned to the side, his eyes are closed. It’s an interesting pose – it doesn’t look natural, but it looks _right_. It tells the truth, one of the most important things that art can do. Bucky, pressed to the wall, looks sad. He is sad. Steve hates that, because he knows that he’s the reason – of course he’s the fucking reason.

He finishes off Bucky’s chin and then moves down to his neck. He’d love to mark with his lips the skin of that neck, those muscles being exposed as Bucky’s head is lolled to the side… _He’s so beautiful_.

Steve’s never been this turned on before. He wasn’t even certain he was capable of this. The kiss with Bucky plays over and over in his mind, making every muscle in his whole body go taut. He can’t look at him, can’t look, but he has to. He has to finish the drawing.

He makes it all the way down below Bucky’s dick, and halfway finishes one of the thighs before he snaps. He drops his charcoal, steps to the side so he can fully see Bucky. Bucky’s eyes are still closed, and Steve hesitates…until they open, and Bucky looks right up to meet Steve’s gaze, and they stare at each other. Steve sees the desire in Bucky’s eyes and he’s never been wanted like this before. He knows that Bucky won’t make a move, but he _wants_ him to. He doesn’t care what he said earlier. It’s all been buried in the curve of Bucky’s neck and the V of his hips.

Steve crosses to Bucky in a few short strides and puts a hand on the back of his head, threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He looks right up into Bucky’s eyes for a moment, and then as their lips press together and Steve’s eyes flutter closed with pleasure, Bucky’s expression of surprise and desire is tattooed on the inside of Steve’s eyelids.

Bucky is already pressed against the wall, and Steve uses his free hand to steady himself just to the left of Bucky’s shoulder. But he doesn’t need to, because his whole body is pressed against Bucky, and Bucky’s hands have found their way to Steve’s back, holding him tight as he leans back enough that Bucky can lean into him, so their lips meet in the middle. They fall into a rhythm of kissing, and Steve’s mind spins with it. With the delight of the kiss and the headiness of it all. His fingers tingle.

Bucky is kissing earnestly, but Steve can tell he’s holding back slightly. And why shouldn’t he, after what Steve did? Steve bites his lip, a little playful, and then pulls back just to kiss Bucky’s jaw, then down his neck, and then ghost his lips across the skin up to his lips again. Bucky lets out little noises of approval, and Steve doesn’t think, doesn’t think, doesn’t think.

His hips grind up into Bucky’s; Bucky presses back, and Steve can feel his dick hard through Steve’s pants. Bucky’s gripping him closer, like Steve is the oasis he’s been dreaming of and he’s just hoping to God it’s not a mirage. Steve nips at Bucky’s lip to prove it; _I’m real._

A moment passes, and then another, and neither seem to take any time at all; Steve understands, in the back of his mind somewhere disconnected, what the saying _time flies when you’re having fun_ was really talking about. And he’s having fun; God he’s having fun. And this time, he lets himself have it. Doesn’t think of any reasons why he shouldn’t; doesn’t think of the freshly turned earth at a grave marker; doesn’t think of Bucky, and his heart, and what if Bucky wants more; doesn’t think of Sam, not until—

The door to Sam’s room opens and Steve flies backward like Bucky’s body is a springboard. “Oh!” Sam is so surprised that he doesn’t even have anything witty to say – at first. “Well I’m sorry I missed the sock on the door… Oh wait, you don’t have a door, because this is the _living room_.” He raises an eyebrow at Steve, clearly questioning more than just why they’re going at it in the living room.

“Sorry, Sam.” Steve’s cheeks are red, he can’t look at Bucky, but he can feel the sheepishness coming off of him.

And he hears it, too, when Bucky says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were here, I’ll go.”

Sam holds up a hand. “No, no need to go,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’ll just be a minute and then you two can return to your…drawing.”

Sam’s eyes drop down as he’s looking at Bucky and Steve realizes, with utter horror, that Bucky is naked. He’s completely fucking naked.

Steve looks at him with wide eyes and sees that he’s covering his dick with one hand and running the other over his hair to smooth it down, reaching for dignity he clearly knows he’s lost.

The bathroom door shuts and Steve clears his throat. “Sorry, he usually sleeps in later than this…”

Bucky laughs distantly, like it’s been drawn up from somewhere deep beneath the layers of horror and embarrassment. “That was a mood killer.” He’s still covering his dick. Steve pointedly doesn’t think about it.

“Did I just…shit, did I just take advantage of you when you were naked?” Steve asks, and Bucky looks alarmed at the thought.

“What? No! I’m not – no. I mean I’m naked yeah but…you didn’t take advantage or anything, I very clearly wanted this too.” He pauses as if considering his next statement before deciding to forge ahead. “I’m just surprised, we stopped kissing a few minutes ago and you’re still standing here.” The words are icy but the tone isn’t quite cold enough.

Steve winces anyway. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m clearly very attracted to you…” It occurs to him that he’s just done a very, very shitty thing. They were supposed to keep it friendly but not this friendly. He probably just led Bucky on and now he’s going to have to drop him, _again_. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m really sorry, Bucky, it’s just, the hormones took over, and you were really attractive-”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off. “It’s okay. I kissed back. And I know I’m hot.” He smirks. Cocky. Steve sees that it’s a façade. “Don’t apologize. I understand. I know you don’t want a relationship, and that’s fine. We shouldn’t anyway. I’m busy with the band. You’re hot though and I’m attracted to you too and…” He rubs his neck with the hand that was previously covering his dick; Steve pointedly continues to look into Bucky’s eyes. “If you want to do this, and make out a little, but not date or anything, that’s cool. I don’t care. It’s whatever.”

Steve isn’t sure he’s being truthful, because he doesn’t know Bucky’s tells yet. So he says, “Well, how about we just play it by ear? Let what happens happen?”

Bucky breathes out a sigh; relief? “Yeah, let’s do that,” he says.

Steve tells him he’s done for today and Bucky puts on his clothes and doesn’t kiss him goodbye as he leaves. When he glances back as he’s walking down the hall to see that Steve’s watching him go, he gives an awkward wave. Steve raises a hand back, then goes back into the apartment, opens the bag of chips, and sits on the couch to stare at the easel boasting the unfinished portrait of Bucky.

If it’s truth he’s aiming for, this one hits the mark. Unfinished lines, a dick dangling down, halfway to hard, next to a thigh that stops in wisps of charcoal. Steve can feel his own frustration in his work. He isn’t sure he likes it but he is sure it’s the truth.


	10. The Aftermath of an Awkward Situation is Faced Head On, More Spit is Swapped, and a Threat is Leveled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little while to get out because of various factors, but mostly just plain old writer's block. Sorry about that. I really am going to start picking up the speed of updating, I PROMISE!

Sunday, 1:37pm

Sam comes out of the bathroom only when he’s sure that Bucky’s gone. Had he known they were going at it in the living room, well, he would have done a lot of things differently. Stayed in his room, for one. Fuck his bladder, he can hold it. Or he would have gone with Nat to her rehearsal. It would be a good excuse to watch her dance. And next Sunday he will for sure be going with her, no matter what Steve promises. And Sam’s sure there will be a promise not to do it again. But he hadn’t meant to do anything today either and yet, that hadn’t looked like nothing, not even close to it. So Steve can’t be trusted around Bucky, it’s clear, no matter his intentions.

Sam doesn’t really blame him, Bucky’s pretty hot, and Sam would know, being, like, 25% into dudes. Most of the time, he’s just Natasha-sexual, as his friends who hear him talk about her nearly constantly like to tease him. But he can’t help that Natasha is very attractive, very smart, very talented, very everything, including Not Ready for a Relationship. Steve’s not the only one recovering from a shitty situation. Nat never opens up about it, but Sam knows that there’s a reason she doesn’t trust anyone. So he’s willing to wait.

It does, however, make it a little difficult to walk into the living room and see two people who met less than a month ago acting like bunnies up against the wall. Of course Sam knows they have their issues too, but if he could do so much as even kiss Natasha, he’d never complain about anything again.

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, Steve’s eating chips and staring forlornly at his easel; Sam heaves a deep, audible sigh. Steve glances up, then back down, his cheeks coloring. He holds out the chip bag. It’s an offering and apology.

“Sorry?” There’s vulnerability in his voice.

Sam sits and takes the bag, reaches in, and pulls out a handful of chips. “Steve,” he starts, and gets cut off.

“I don’t need a lecture, and I _definitely_ don’t want one. Can we not? I’ve got this under control, it’s fine. We talked about it, he’s fine with it. We’re going to do kind of a friends with benefits thing?” The arch of his voice and eyebrow make it clear that he didn’t see this coming any more than Sam did.

“A friends with benefits thing,” Sam repeats, and his disapproval is so complete that he can’t keep it from his voice. He can’t find the part of his mind that thinks this might be healthy for Steve in order to use it for this conversation, because it doesn’t exist. Friends with benefits things don’t last, it’s why he doesn’t do that with Natasha. He knows that it would be far too tempting. He’s considered it enough times that he could write a novel about the possibilities, but the ending is never good. Nat’s not ready for a relationship, so even if it happened, she’d feel cornered into it. And, presumably, so would Steve, if he’s really as resistant to having a boyfriend as he seems.

“If you don’t have anything supportive to say just maybe do a favor and don’t say anything?” Steve doesn’t usually bring out the attitude for Sam, so Sam does what he’s told and mimes zipping his lips. “Good. I’ll try to keep it out of public spaces though. If that makes it better.”

Sam shrugs and stuffs his mouth full of chips to save himself and Steve from a reply.

 

Sunday, 2:47pm

“So you made out _again_?” Clint asks. He’s eating a hot dog from a vendor, but Bucky doesn’t have the stomach for vendor food today. He feels needy as hell, and Clint’s a good enough friend that he had come to Bucky’s rescue when Bucky texted saying he needed to hang out, because he would go insane if left on his own, or even to spend the afternoon at home playing video games. (Not to brag, but Bucky’s good enough at GTA that it only takes up about 70% of his brainpower, and would leave the other 30% to obsess over Steve.) They’re going to see an action movie that they’d been meaning to go to since it came out a few weeks before, and now is the perfect opportunity to do so. Action always takes Bucky’s mind off things, and he recognizes that if he isn’t careful, he’s going to overthink this thing with Steve and ruin everything. Although what there is to ruin, he’s not entirely sure.

“We did,” Bucky confirms, stepping up to the ticket booth outside the theater as Clint shoves the rest of the hot dog in his mouth. “And it was awesome.” He orders his ticket and pays.

Clint swallows, digs for his wallet, and orders his own. “I have to see this guy if he’s gonna be your new boyfriend.”

“He’s not gonna be my new boyfriend,” Bucky says. “It’s a purely physical thing. Which is for the best honestly.” Of course, Bucky thinks about texting Steve constantly, and decides against it every time. He thinks about the dates they could go on and what they could do, and how is it that he was genuinely uninterested in dating until Steve came along?

Well, he knows how it is. He knows that it’s because he hadn’t foreseen the adorable, perfect guy that is Steve. He’d risk the distraction from the band for Steve, even though he knows Steve would be perfectly accommodating. Hell, he seems like the type who would even come to all the shows.

“He’ll be more,” Clint says wisely, gesturing to the food counter. “Popcorn? Soda?”

“Both, and M&Ms.” Because Bucky’s sad, horny, and maybe just a tiny, tiny bit in love.

Clint’s eyes glint manically. “Good man.”

They get their food and don’t talk anymore about it until a preview for a historical drama fades, and the green General Audiences screen comes up for the next trailer. “You should text him and invite him to your next show,” Clint says to Bucky, “and maybe this time he--” He’s cut off by a jump scare in the beginning of the trailer, and he never finishes his sentence. Bucky doesn’t want him to anyway.

 

Monday, 8:47pm

**Bucky: hey this might be weird but do you want to come see another show? We could always use more audience members. Nat and Sam are welcome too**

**Bucky: oh right and it’s Thursday night at a bar in brooklyn**

**Steve: What time? That sounds fun**

**Bucky: we go on at 9**

**Steve: could wee come early and grab dinner?**

**Bucky: yeah totally!**

 

Thursday, 11:46pm

Bucky looks even sexier from above. Steve bites his lip as a little laugh escapes him, then threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It’s Christmas morning and he’s a child waiting to open his present, but so far it’s still under the tree wrapped up in a bow, and the possibilities are endless. Bucky’s body, Steve’s attraction to it, it’s fucking _endless_. Bucky’s lips are parted slightly as he looks up at Steve, standing on a box in the green room in the back of a tiny bar, and his eyes are so full of lust Steve worries they’ll brim over if he doesn’t kiss him right now.

So he does. He bends, and Bucky tilts up, and they’re kissing. It’s the opposite of before – Steve is above Bucky, and he loves it. He kneads his fingers through Bucky’s hair, presses knuckles against his skull, pulls a little and relishes Bucky’s soft moan when he does.

They find a rhythm quickly, quicker than the two other times, and a lyric from a song Bucky’s just finished playing onstage runs through his mind – _I’m too fucking gone for you, but I know for sure I’m not for you, so I’ll turn off my heart and let’s just have a good time_. And it is a good time. They move together, through valleys of comfort and peaks of desperation as the desire rises and falls. Steve’s hard against Bucky’s stomach; he’s sure Bucky notices. The thought of it just makes him harder, and after a moment Bucky grunts and grips Steve’s waist, pulls him down. Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, breaking the kiss only for a moment for the movement, and then kisses him again, at the same level this time. It’s even more sexual now, with Steve’s cock rubbing Bucky’s through their pants, and his mind is going haywire.

Bucky breaks the kiss, turns and looks at the door, making sure it’s closed, and then he whispers, pressing his lips against the place where Steve’s neck meets his shoulder, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Steve nods quickly; he doesn’t care if Nat and Sam are here, he just wants Bucky, wants to be alone with him, finally, to explore this part of himself more fully. Bucky is so here, and so willing, and Steve is so, so curious to know more. He wants everything. He knows they shouldn’t rush it, but he can’t help himself, not now, when there’s so little keeping him sane. Bucky is one of those things and rather than be careful with it when it’s just a small thread, he grabs it and holds tight.

“Yes,” he says. Rough. “Let’s go.”

And Bucky laughs, there’s a flash of those white teeth, and he kisses Steve again, now with the knowledge that they’re going home to do even more.

Naturally, this is when the door opens.

“Hey hey hey whoa!” Todd covers his eyes with his hand, making a face. “No! No, Bucky, that is _not_ – wow! Jesus.”

The mood falls from its heady place immediately.

Steve pales, looking over at the bass player, half-embarrassed and half-guilty.

“Sorry, Todd,” Bucky says, “can you give us a few…?”

“No way, pal,” Todd says, “we’re heading out. You gotta help us, you have no choice. You never let _me_ off the hook easy…”

“And now I never will,” Bucky mutters, annoyed but fondly so. “Later, Steve,” he says quietly in Steve’s ear, kissing it before reaching down to pick up the very box Steve had been standing on. “Come on, perv, let’s go,” he says to Todd as he passes him. “Watching two guys get it on. Jesus, you’re disgusting.”

Todd laughs, smacks Bucky on the ass, and avoids eye contact with Steve as he picks up his bass and heads out to follow Bucky to the street.

 

Friday, 2:04am

Natasha checks her phone to look at the time, then yawns. “Steve,” she starts, but her friend isn’t facing her, and his own babbling covers up her voice.

“And of course I’ve never done anything and I’m so- I don’t _know_ anything! I should watch gay porn or something more and take notes I mean I’ve seen gay porn before and I’ve seen straight porn and I just I don’t know and I just what do I do if he wants to have sex? I do! But I don’t. And we almost did!” He turns to her, framed in front of the window by the night reflected outside. She can see the brick of the building across the street; almost all of the lights in those apartments are off. His posture is uncertain; arms crossed over his chest, one hand up at his mouth, fingernail caught between his teeth. His eyes dart between her eyes and a space just above her head.

He’s adorable, and scared, and fragile, but strong. So strong. She wishes she could somehow impress this upon him without telling him, because saying those words would mean nothing to him. They never mean anything to anyone. So she has no idea _what_ words to use.

 “Steve,” she says softly. “I know you’re freaking out but-” His eyes flash and she remembers that she isn’t supposed to point out to someone who’s freaking out that they are, in fact, losing their shit. Too late now though. “You need to calm down, you’ve been talking yourself in circles since we got home. Just ask him what he wants if you’re wondering so much.”

“It’s just like I had some drinks and then I was going to go to his apartment and I don’t know what we’d do there! It’s not like I don’t trust him – he’s stronger than me but-”

Natasha’s heard this line of reasoning before – twice, in fact, in the past hour, since Sam fell asleep on the couch and Steve followed her into her room to ramble at her. She wonders if he’d be lying in the dark on the couch thinking about all of this if Sam weren’t on his couch, forcing him to be in here saying it to her; the thought makes her glad he’s here. Even if she will be tired in the morning working her shift with none other than the famous Bucky Barnes.

She’s glad she’s not the type to feel awkward about such things as looking someone in the eye less than eight hours after you’ve been forced to consider his cock length, girth, and _general shape_ ad nauseum, four separate times, using different pieces of evidence and an overripe banana for assistance.

Steve is a man obsessed.

“-I don’t want to disappoint him if he expects something, but then, I also want to _do_ something with him, it’s just, is this not the right time? And if he’s looking for a relationship and I’m like, no just sex, and then don’t give him sex either, then I’m an asshole.” He pleads with Natasha with his eyes and she wonders if what he’s really pleading is _please give me a tranquilizer dart or high-dose cough syrup asap._

“Look, Steve,” Natasha says in her calmest voice, “you’re thinking into this too much. This is supposed to be a casual thing, for both of you, and I don’t think he expects sex. You want to blow him and stuff right? I’m sure he’ll be plenty happy about that.”

Steve nods quickly. “I do want that,” he assures her, as if she’s the one who’s worked up here.

“Never met a man who wasn’t happy with a blowjob,” Natasha says with a shrug. “And if you decide you want more, then let him know. I can’t see Bucky pressuring you, he’s a good guy.”

Steve looks even _more_ terrified, something Natasha had been certain couldn’t happen. “I feel like I’m taking advantage of his feelings and using him for sex or something, how awful is that? I’m an awful person! Especially since I don’t even know if we’re going to have sex!”

His eyes are bugging out almost comically. Natasha sighs deeply. “Steven,” she says, in an almost scolding tone, “please. You’re overthinking this. Either you want him or you don’t. Thinking about it obsessively is only going to hurt it, whatever _it_ is. And you don’t want that. Just let things happen. If ‘things’ is sex then cool, if it’s sex and dates, cool, if it’s a relationship, cool. Just. Chill.” She’s firm but her eyes are kind.

Steve huffs. “Easy for you to say,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. He then flops down on her bed.

There’s silence for a few moments, but it isn’t unbearable. Natasha thinks over the past hour or so, considering her friend and his many nuances. He’s terrified of Bucky, that much is clear, in a sexual and romantic way, but he wants both things. She wonders which he’ll allow himself to have, and which he’ll be so afraid of he’ll push Bucky away before he lets himself have it.

They don’t speak again until Steve falls asleep, and Natasha pulls her blanket over him, because the cool air coming from the vent is directed over him and she can see the hair on his head blowing in the breeze it causes, and she doesn’t want him getting cold. How can someone so mentally strong be so physically weak?

And further, she thinks as she brushes her teeth and stares at herself in the mirror, how can someone so strong be so uncertain of his own strength that he thinks a relationship would ruin not only him, but the other person too?

Natasha tucks herself under the sheets, glances once more at Steve, sleeping peacefully, and then turns out the light.

For awhile, in the dark, she thinks of Sam, on the couch, and wonders who she was really thinking about in the bathroom.

 

Friday. 1:23pm.

The shift’s been busy, and Bucky breathes out a long breath. He got almost no sleep the night before, after leaving the club, going home and jacking off in the shower, then watching reality TV with Alex for hours. He was barely able to focus on whether or not the girl on TV was going to say yes to the dress because he couldn’t stop thinking about the many feelings of Steve – the feelings of being in the bar with him beforehand, eating dinner, with Steve laughing and Bucky talking with food in his mouth, and Steve teasing him for it, and Nat joining in, and Sam looking uncomfortable because he doesn’t know whose side he’s on. The whole thing had felt so good, and he wants more and more of it forever.

Those kind of gooey thoughts terrify him, especially since he _knows_ this can’t happen with Steve. Steve is not interested in a relationship, and this friends-with-benefits thing will end sooner or later. He needs to try to savor it while he can.

He finds himself standing next to Natasha, both of them making drinks at the counter, their backs to the customers, and he says, “Where does Steve work?” in a low voice.

Without looking, Bucky can feel that the corner of Natasha’s mouth curls up. “He works at this bookstore, Niche Books, in Brooklyn,” she tells him.

“God,” Bucky lets out with a breathy laugh, “he’s so hipster. Is he aware how hipster he is?”

“No real hipsters are,” Natasha says, putting a lid on the drink she’s just made, giving Bucky a look that shows the laughter in her eyes, and heads over to give the customer his drink. Bucky hears the guy say something in a low tone, and he hears Natasha’s annoyance in her laugh. “I got a boyfriend, sir, sorry,” she says, and Bucky rolls his eyes to himself. When he turns around he sees that the guy is at _least_ 40 and dressed in a suit and tie. He catches the man’s eye and gives him a cool look, and the guy holds up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, didn’t realize, should’ve known, hot little thing like you,” he says. Natasha glares at him, and Bucky can see in her eyes that she’s thinking of all the ways she could kill him right here and now. Ballerinas. Terrifying.

The man turns to go, and Bucky gives Natasha a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry men can be gross,” he says, but Natasha holds up a hand.

“Believe me, you don’t know the half of it. If you’ve got tits, that’s all you are to some of them,” she says. “And look, I know you’re a nice guy and all, but Steve’s not just a dick to ride, okay?”

Bucky’s so surprised he takes a step back. “What?” is all he can say. Natasha knows him. They’re coworkers and semi-friends, how could she think that’s all he wants from Steve?

“Steve’s a really good guy, like _really_ good, okay? I just don’t want to see you hurting him.”

The irony of this is just torture and Bucky can only stare, waiting for her to somehow catch on that she’s talking _nonsense_. No one has to worry that Bucky’s going to use Steve for just sex.

“You do _not_ have to worry about that,” he says sincerely, “I would date him in a fucking heartbeat.” He even crosses his heart, though he hasn’t done that since he was a kid, dragged to church in an ill-fitting suit, wondering what kinds of things made you go to hell, and whether there would be video games there. As a result, the gesture carries more weight than he’d realized when his hand unconsciously did it, but he doesn’t care. He _would_ date Steve in a heartbeat.

“You better.” Natasha seems to be wrestling with herself over whether to share more. She apparently decides to go for it. “Steve, uh. Just be careful with him, sexually, too. I mean he has asthma so…just don’t give him an asthma attack or anything, first of all, but also he’s not exactly…the most _experienced_.” She seems to be choosing her words carefully for the least amount of betrayal, but Bucky’s struck by it anyway: she clearly thinks it’s more important for Bucky to know this than it is for her to stay strictly in the friendship code of ethics.

“So he’s a virgin?” Bucky guesses.

Natasha doesn’t say anything which is enough of a response.

“I figured,” Bucky admits. “He’s good but he doesn’t seem…well.” He shrugs. “You know.”

Natasha nods. “I know.”

There’s a silence and fortunately someone from above smiles on them and sends in a few customers, so they can move on from this conversation. The only time either of them brings it up again is as they’re clocking out, with Natasha putting her time card into the slot to get stamped and Bucky waiting his turn, holding it between his teeth as he reaches back to untie his apron. She glances at him and says, “And if you hurt him I’ll kill you.”

He believes her, so he nods seriously, the effect only marred slightly by the time card in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will involve flirty Stucky so stick around and leave a comment if you want that sooner rather than later! The comments really help an incredible amount with motivation.


	11. Flirtations, Books, and Blowjobs, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little housekeeping note: I went back and edited some stuff from the beginning/the summary in favor of changing a plot point (I originally had Steve tell Bucky his mom died in Chapter 3, when they first met, but I'd since decided to take that out, so I went back and did that). Sorry about that, thus is the nature of posting as I go along.

Saturday. 1:24pm.

Steve’s pretty sure life passes by quicker in the few hours before he has to go to work. He’d planned on waking up early so he could climb up to the roof to do some sketching. The view isn’t great but it’s farther from all the noise of traffic and people down on the street and in the apartments surrounding theirs (which he’s finally decided to start thinking of as home, even though it feels like a betrayal). Morning is the easiest time, because as the night creeps closer, the dread rises; those long, dark hours, usually filled by wakefulness or nightmares, are never easy. There’s no one to help him, either, no one whose bed he can crawl into. No one he can call. Even though his friends say he _can_ , he knows there must be a limit to their kindness. There’s a limit to everyone’s kindness, except for his mother’s.

The waking up early plan hadn’t worked, because he’d slept right through his alarm – blessing in disguise, since he’d barely gotten any sleep all week, thanks to the Bucky incident and various nightmares that made him terrified to be unconscious. Still, he’d woken at noon with only two hours until work. He’d showered, dressed, scarfed down some dry cereal, and is now in line at Starbucks, checking the time on his phone. He has to walk to work, and in this heat, he’ll need to take it slow. His train of thought dissolves into various curse words as he thinks about his six hour shift, stocking shelves and checking out snooty hipster customers who always ask if his glasses are real. (“ _Yes, they’re real, I’m blind without them.” “They’re so cute though!” “They’re also a necessity.”_ )

He tries to be in a good mood and he’s generally good with customers, but lately it’s been difficult. His boss has been understanding, but tight with him when it comes to customer service. Apparently, telling someone that they shouldn’t read A Farewell to Arms because Hemingway was a sexist pig isn’t acceptable, no matter how true it is.

Steve’s at Starbucks, even though Natasha isn’t working today. Bucky, however, is. She’d told him as much and encouraged him to leave early so he could see Bucky at work. Steve thought it sounded like a little much, but Nat assured him that Bucky would love it and it would help bring up his mood.

And she’s right. As he steps up to the counter and Bucky’s ‘customer smile’ widens into a real smile, Steve finds himself unconsciously smiling back.

“Hey there!” Bucky says. “What can I do ya for?” He winks.

“Well, sir,” he says, leaning on the counter. “I’ll take somethin’ real strong.”

Bucky tries to rearrange his face into a serious expression but it’s clearly difficult; he ends up laughing. “Okay. For real, what do you want?”

Steve considers, and then with an evil grin, feeling not at all how he was just a few moments before, he says, “A grande, iced, sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk. And make it speedy, I’ve got work.” He’s trying not to laugh.

Bucky makes a face. “Jesus,” he says. “You’re one of those customers.”

“I can’t help that I’m lactose intolerant!” Steve makes big, innocent eyes.

“Yeah don’t do that innocent thing on me, I know better,” Bucky says, shaking his head, glancing behind Steve at the line, and sighing a little. He tells Steve the price, and Steve hands him his credit card. Bucky rings it up and gives it back to Steve, purposefully brushing their fingers together, and something rushes through Steve. He pictures vaulting over the counter and throwing Bucky to the floor and…

“I’ll make that for you now, Steve.” When Bucky says his name, Steve’s heart does a little flip that he hadn’t been expecting.

Steve pulls out his phone to check Instagram and he’s standing by the counter waiting for his drink, trying not to be obvious, but glancing up and watching Bucky every few seconds, scrolling through photos with his thumb and not even noticing them. Bucky’s arms look so incredible in that black t-shirt, and his ass is even better. He’s not overly muscular, because he’s a freaking musician and not a gym rat of any kind, but he obviously works out. Steve wishes he could work out like a normal person, but when he tries to run it involves lots of breaks to use his inhaler, and weight lifting is just embarrassing. He can barely even do a push up.

Someone comes to stand next to him and he glances at her, just because she’s so _close_ her arm is literally touching his. She’s wearing all black and her hair is poorly dyed. Steve smiles vaguely but she’s just staring.

“Yes?” he asks, after she doesn’t stop when he looks down at his phone, then up at Bucky, then finally back to her.

“I like your glasses,” she says.

He reaches up with a hand to adjust them, subconsciously. “Thanks.” He doesn’t usually get compliments, since he’s short and skinny and totally lame.

“You’re cute,” is the next thing out of her mouth and Steve’s so shocked that he nearly drops his phone on the floor.

“I-”

He’d been so focused on her that he wasn’t keeping track of Bucky, who’s now come up to the counter. He slams the drink down loudly and says, “Steve, your drink.”

Steve looks to him, and sees that there’s anger in Bucky’s eyes. He feels a little guilty, even though he hasn’t done anything, and he and Bucky aren’t exclusive, but still.

Then he realizes Bucky isn’t angry at _him_ , because Bucky’s now glaring at the girl. His eyes cut back to Steve and he says, “Hope you like it, babe, I wanted to apologize for not making your coffee strong enough at home this morning.” He gives a little frown, and it’s actually damn convincing.

But what is he _doing_? Steve’s surprised and all he can say is, “Oh. Thanks.” He takes it and stares down at it, mind swirling.

The girl, to her credit, apologizes swiftly. “Sorry! I didn’t realize you were…you didn’t…” She frowns. “Sorry.” She steps away, and Steve moves in closer to the counter, looking up at Bucky, who has an all-too-innocent expression.

“What was that?” he hisses quietly, too surprised to figure out the rational reaction here.

“She was flirting with you and you felt awkward, I was just being a good friend!” Bucky says defensively, clearly hurt by Steve’s reaction.

But Steve’s too freaked out to do anything but shake his head. “Just. You didn’t have to do that, I can stand up for myself.”

“You weren’t though,” Bucky points out, and Steve glares.

“I would have.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the store, feeling Bucky watching him. When he glances through the window once out on the street, he can see that Bucky’s still looking at him. He looks away quickly.

He gets the basic principle, but he’s still annoyed. Did Bucky think he needed protection or something? Does Bucky see him as weak? Steve could have handled the situation on his own if he were upset by it, which he wasn’t even. Why would he be upset by a girl flirting with him? He’s not gay. Was Bucky just jealous and seeing discomfort that wasn’t there to make himself feel better? And if he did think Steve was upset, does Bucky not think he can deal with his own shit?

 

When Bucky gets out of work, he pulls up Niche Books on his phone and makes his way there. He really, really doesn’t want Steve to be angry, but his mind has been circling around the incident for the past few hours while he finished his shift. What had he done? He thought he was doing a favor, but Steve clearly misinterpreted it as Bucky suggesting that they were in an actual relationship… Friends do that all the time though, so Bucky doesn’t see the big deal. And Steve _clearly_ had no idea how to respond to the girl, he was _obviously_ not into her, and he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want a relationship. So why would he be upset about Bucky helping him out of an awkward no?

Clearly there are things he has yet to learn about Steve Rogers.

But damned if he’s going to let that be the end of anything – Steve walking out of Starbucks pissed at him. Bucky doesn’t care if they’re just friends, dating, or somewhere in between: he has to try to make it better. He’d do the same for any of his other friends if he thought they were angry with him. Even though he bickers with Clint all the time, he’d still walk to the ends of the earth for the guy, same with any of the guys in the band. They annoy him but he loves them.

He doesn’t love Steve. Not right now. He worries near constantly that he could love Steve, that he might be _starting to_ , but he doesn’t. He just needs to let this all play out and not end right now because he messed up somehow and Steve’s angry.

He finds the bookstore fairly easily and walks in. A bell above the door announces his arrival. The bookstore smells like books and is a sound vacuum; everything is very quiet. It’s a pretty nice store but it’s completely hipster and therefore there’s no organization. Instead it’s filled with bookshelves that aren’t lined up in any particular order, they’re just placed around the room in a maze. Inconvenience is the art of the hip. But Bucky and his wildly beating heart have no time for this.

“Um, hello?” he calls, peering around a shelf.

There’s a beat of silence and he glances behind him to check out the window to see that there are, in fact, still people walking by and cars in the street, and he hasn’t just been sucked into a literal vacuum of books and silence.

A voice from behind one of the shelves calls back, “One minute please!” It’s heavily accented, and it belongs to a man, probably in his sixties or seventies. Definitely not Steve. What if Steve isn’t here?

Bucky’s mind slips quickly into panic. If Steve isn’t here, then Bucky will have to go to his house, where he could run into Sam or Natasha and possibly not Steve, and then if Steve’s somewhere else, in order to keep the apology timely, Bucky will have to run all around the city to find him and apologize, and he has to be at band practice at 10.

“How can I help you?” An old man emerges from amidst the shelves and Bucky smiles vaguely, feeling awkward as hell.

“I actually was wondering if Steve was here?” he asks, feeling oddly timid.

The man scrutinizes him and then says, “He’s on his break. He’ll be back in five minutes.”

Bucky nods. “Er.”

The man offers no counsel.

“I’ll just wait then. And browse.” He gestures to a shelf and the man nods, satisfied, and Bucky feels like he’s passed a test.

He heads over to the sci-fi section and starts pulling out books that look cool based on their titles, flipping them, and trying to concentrate on the descriptions on the back. He doesn’t have a lot of time for reading, between practicing to be a rock star and making coffee for a whole bunch of white people. But some of these books sound interesting, and he thinks he should maybe make time. One in particular seems cool, and he’s holding it and biting his lip, reading the reviews on the inside, when he hears Steve clear his throat from the end of the aisle.

Bucky’s head snaps up. “Steve!” He closes the book and sets it back on the shelf. “Hi. I hope it’s okay I’m here.”

“How’d you know where I work?” Steve isn’t angry, he looks curious and a little surprised.

“Natasha told me,” Bucky confesses.

Steve smiles a little and the simple action floods Bucky with relief. “Cool. I wanted to talk to you anyway… I was going to text you after my shift.”

“Really?” Bucky’s surprised, but pleased. So Steve felt bad for walking out. Or did he want to talk to yell at Bucky? The way he’s smiling now suggests that’s not the case.

“Yeah.” Steve rubs his neck. “I, uh, overreacted, I think. I was pissed until I got here and then once I’d finished my coffee and stocked a couple books I sort of realized I was being ridiculous. And I saw this one book and thought you might like it so I kind of, uh, set it aside to buy for you. And I was going to surprise you with it.”

“You were?”

Steve nods.

“Well… I’m surprised _now_! That’s cool, Steve, you didn’t have to. I just came by to make sure you weren’t mad at me. I worried you might be, but I just wasn’t really sure what I did wrong…” He trails off. He’s not sure this is a very good apology.

“You didn’t really do anything wrong,” Steve says. His voice is solemn now. “It’s just that I…” He trails off and Bucky can tell he’s thinking through something, trying to decide whether he should tell Bucky something important. Bucky waits patiently for him to choose – he hopes maybe Steve will tell him what’s going on with him, why Nat said he was having a hard time, but he isn’t sure that he’s earned it yet.

He waits, but Steve doesn’t say anything, and now he’s staring off into space, so Bucky clears his throat. “Do you maybe want to come to my place after you get off your shift? I can give you the address.”

Steve glances at him, almost as if he’d forgotten Bucky was standing there waiting for him to talk, and he looks embarrassed. Bucky gives an encouraging smile. “Sure,” Steve agrees, which is the opposite of what Bucky’d been expecting. He’d thought Steve would give an excuse and then ask him to leave.

“Great.” Bucky smiles and starts to turn away, then he remembers: “Oh right! My book!”

“Yeah!” Steve smiles, though it’s not a full smile, and turns around, beckoning for Bucky to follow. “Here, I put it aside.” He ducks into a back room in the corner of the shop and then emerges with the book. It’s Room Full of Mirrors, a biography of Jimi Hendrix. Bucky takes it, a little smile forming on his lips, and not the kind where you pretend to like something your grandmother got you for Christmas. “It’s Jimi Hendrix… I’m not super knowledgeable about, like, music and I don’t really know who you like, but I know Hendrix was a great guitar player and he was famous and I just thought you’d find it interesting…” He looks up at Bucky, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Bucky glances behind his shoulder, to be sure that they’re hidden from view by a bookshelf, and then he leans in and kisses Steve quickly, an innocent peck. “Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away as his heartrate increases: that was probably _not_ the right thing to do. Especially not after Steve made it so clear earlier he didn’t want Bucky to act like they were together.

But Steve’s smiling and blushing now, and he waves a hand and says, “I should get back to work.”

Bucky nods quickly. “Yeah.”

“Text me your address though,” Steve adds.

Bucky breaks into a grin, pats the book with the hand not holding it, and says, “Okay. Will do. Cool.” He starts to back out of the aisle, and Steve laughs a little at him.

“I’m not the queen, you can turn your back on me,” he says.

“Maybe I don’t want to. You are cuter than the queen.” Bucky winks and then before he can even see Steve’s reaction to that, he rounds the corner past the shelf.

 

8:26pm. Bucky’s apartment.

Steve knocks on the door, then nearly turns and runs back to the stairwell. What if Bucky’s bandmates are home? What if they know what Steve and Bucky are doing? And what _are_ they going to do? His heart is racing, his palms are sweating, he is _not_ sexy at all in his work khakis and plain black polo, and _goddammit_ he forgot to take his nametag off. He’s unpinning it from his shirt just as Bucky opens the door.

Steve sighs, and drops his hands, ready for the inevitable, which comes quickly: “Hi there…” Bucky leans down, peers at Steve’s nametag, and reads his name like it’s the first time he’s ever strung these letters together in this order, “Steve…?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m the stripper you ordered?” he says, only half-committing to rolling with this. He’s a little too nervous for it.

Bucky roars out a laugh and steps aside so Steve can come into the apartment.

“Nobody’s here,” he tells Steve, and then Steve hears a thud from behind one of the closed doors down the hall. Bucky sighs. “Okay. I lied. Alex is here. But he’s chill and he won’t bother us. Band practice is at ten so everybody’s out and we’re all just meeting where we practice.”

“You don’t practice here?” Steve asks, then feels like an idiot. _Of course they don’t practice in their apartment._

Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he says, “there would be so many noise complaints.”

“Right, duh.” Steve grimaces. Bucky grins.

“You want water or something?” Bucky asks.

“Nah.” Steve dismisses him with a wave.

“Okay this is my bedroom then.” Bucky leads him down the hall and into his room. There are two beds squeezed into the small space, one of them double and the other single, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Which is yours?”

Bucky pats the double bed, grins, “Luck of the draw,” he says with pride in his eyes. “AKA I bought mine first, before we realized there wasn’t room for two doubles.”

Steve laughs a little, and it hits him that he’s glad Bucky doesn’t have his own room, or else Steve would be embarrassed by the fact that he sleeps on a couch and doesn’t have any definite plans for getting a bed any time soon. (Sam and Nat bother him about it, too, but he doesn’t _want_ a bed. For some reason that feels like it’s something he shouldn’t have right now. There are lots of things he feels like he shouldn’t have, and he’s looking at two of them: a bed, and Bucky Barnes.)

Steve sits down on the bed, a bold move, but he’s not feeling quite himself; the Steve Rogers he’s spent his life being would never do this at all. He wouldn’t be here in a hot guy’s bedroom. He probably would have just drawn Natasha rather than rope some poor stranger into his art project – but he hasn’t been himself lately at all.

(A distant part of his brain supplies the following thought: _The old you wouldn’t be using Bucky like this. The old you would date him or dump him._ )

He ignores the thought, because now Bucky’s sitting down next to him, looking perfectly content, and putting a hand on Steve’s thigh. The pause before they kiss feels awkward, but Steve leans in, recognizing that Bucky won’t. He feels taller, now that they’re both sitting, and they meet each other from the same height this time; his lips curve into a smile right before meeting Bucky’s.

It grows heavy quickly, and Steve presses his body up against Bucky’s, moving closer and then, when Bucky breaks the kiss to press his lips to Steve’s neck, Steve hitches a leg over Bucky’s lap. Whoever’s in control of Steve’s actions right now, he recognizes distantly, it isn’t him; he lets the separate entity be in charge though, appreciating the break from the constantness of being _him_.

Bucky’s body is rolling into his, as he presses his hips up against Steve’s, and Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s back. He can feel Bucky’s muscles through his thin t-shirt; the temperature of the room feels like it’s gone up by 100 degrees, but it only makes him feel headier. For the first time this summer, the heat is a release rather than an extra weight. His hands find their way to Bucky’s hair, which hasn’t been cut in a few weeks and is long enough for Steve to thread his thin fingers through, gripping at it.

The minutes fly quickly, and Bucky requests permission to slip his tongue into Steve’s mouth by pressing it against his lips. Steve complies, and the kiss deepens until he feels like he and Bucky are one. He’s never shared something like this with someone – the other two times, it was more or less in public. This is Bucky’s room, and it’s just the two of them. No one is going to interrupt here, there’s no need to worry that anyone will see… Steve loses himself in it.

Bucky pulls back after awhile, cheeks flushed, and says, “I’m sorry, but we either have to stop or I gotta take off my pants.” He gestures to his jeans, which his erection is tight against, and Steve turns even redder than he already was.

“Sorry,” he mutters, moving to stand. He sees in Bucky’s eyes that he’s misunderstood – he clearly thinks Steve is getting up to _stop_. But Steve doesn’t want to stop. He shakes his head quickly and then reaches for Bucky’s jeans to undo them. He doesn’t make eye contact until he’s pulled down the zipper, and then his blue eyes meet Bucky’s grey ones. There’s a question in Bucky’s, and Steve nods.

Bucky stands up just enough to take off his pants and throw them onto the ground. Then he’s just in his underwear, and Steve can clearly see that Bucky wants to take that off too.

He feels himself nod, and then _reach out and pull down Bucky’s underwear._ He pulls it down just enough to free Bucky’s cock, and then Bucky does the rest of the work, kicking off the underwear, pulling off his t-shirt, and then putting his own hand around his cock. He starts to jerk it, a little, looking up at Steve with another question.

“Do you want to-” he asks, aloud this time, and Steve does. He gently pushes Bucky’s shoulder until the brunet is lying back on the bed, and then Steve kneels over top of him, aching in his own pants but not quite ready to take them off just yet.

Not when Bucky’s cock is so… _perfect_. After weeks of staring at and drawing it, Steve can finally touch it. He’s been fantasizing about this moment, certain it would never happen, but here he is. He wraps his fingers around it and starts to jerk it, but when Bucky doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it enough, Steve knows what he has to do. When he’d done this the one other time in his life, he’d had to spit on his hand to get it wet enough. But now he’s feeling more adventurous than that; he leans down, his own cock pulsing against the crotch of his khakis, and takes Bucky in his mouth. He doesn’t go far down, doesn’t want to push his limits here, but he can feel Bucky swell against his tongue. He pushes back and forth a moment, swirls his tongue around, adjusts to the idea that it’s in his _mouth_. And it’s sexy as hell. Bucky’s making little whimpering noises, too, which is only making Steve more turned on. He feels Bucky’s cock twitch and he pulls back, swirls his tongue around the tip, collecting the pre-come on it, and then swallows. He glances up at Bucky, who looks surprised and totally, completely pleased with this turn of events.

It hadn’t lasted long, but it wasn’t meant to. Steve gives Bucky a little grin as he straightens up again and now that Bucky’s dick is wet, he wraps his hand around it again and starts to jerk it off in earnest.

Bucky’s responsive, making noises of affirmation, closing his eyes, nodding a little, and Steve has to reach into his own pants to stroke his cock. He can’t go back now, he’ll need to take care of that. Or… _Bucky_ will need to take care of it.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky says, the first words he’s uttered, “you’re probably real hard yourself. How hard are you?”

“Hard,” Steve confirms, not used to dirty talk, and he isn’t sure if this even counts as that.

“You want me to take care of you?” Bucky asks, panting a little with the pleasure.

“After you.” Steve bends down, then, and takes Bucky in his mouth again. The sound of Bucky’s voice made him want him in his mouth again. It’s so fucking intimate and _addicting_. He gets it in deeper this time, until he thinks he might gag, and reaches up with his hand to fondle Bucky’s balls while he’s at it. Bucky’s making noises of total approval above him, whimpering and moaning, spurning Steve on. Steve’s never done this before, and he’s not entirely sure _what_ to do, but he sucks Bucky’s cock and tries basically to do what he thinks he’d like. If he’s stalling, he’s not aware of it.

Distantly, he recognizes that he doesn’t want Bucky to see him without his clothes on. Bucky is lean but muscular, and he’s a musician, and he’s sexy. Steve has seen him naked multiple times. Bucky’s never seen Steve’s naked body, and really, it’s nothing to write home about. He doesn’t have a little dick – it’s normal-sized – but everything else about him is little. He isn’t that strong, he’s pale, his ribcage is totally visible when he stretches… Basically, he’s sure that Bucky will be disappointed when he gets his clothes off.

With a moan and an arch of his hips, Bucky comes right into Steve’s mouth; it fills his mouth and drips down his chin, back onto Bucky’s lower stomach. Steve swallows it, all of it, feeling proud of himself and distracted from his self-conscious thoughts for now. He made Bucky come – a lot. He _swallowed_ it.

The thought ensures that his own cock is downright painful now, and he needs to take care of it soon. Bucky’s sits up.

“Your turn,” he says with a grin. His eyes are bright, his cheeks are red, his hair is mussed. Steve wants to look at him forever.

Obediently, Steve stands and undoes his pants; he hesitates for a moment before pulling them down, but Bucky nods encouragingly. They fall into a puddle around his ankles.

“You don’t have to,” Bucky tells him. “Just thought you might like the same treatment.”

Steve does want the same treatment, thinks he’d actually enjoy it, so he takes off his shirt and pulls down his underwear. He feels skinny as hell in this moment, standing before Bucky, and he knows a bit of how Bucky must feel being drawn by him every Sunday. It’s worse than being naked, it’s being vulnerable.

But the look in Bucky’s eyes isn’t disappointed or disgusted; instead, he looks ecstatic to finally be able to see Steve naked. Since Steve is still standing, Bucky falls to his knees, and looks up at Steve. “Let me know if you want me to stop ever, okay?” he says.

“Sure.” Steve nods. He’s never gotten a blowjob before but if he liked having Bucky in his mouth, he can’t imagine how it’ll feel with the roles reversed.

Bucky puts a strong hand on the side of Steve’s thigh, gripping it as he takes Steve in his mouth suddenly. It’s clear he knows his way around a cock better than Steve does, by the way he doesn’t shy away from it at all. He wraps his lips around it and presses forward until the tip is in the back of his mouth; Steve hears him gag a little, and Jesus he hadn’t thought _that_ would ever turn him on but here he is…

He puts a hand on the back of Bucky’s head, fingers in that fine, beautiful hair. He tries not to sway too much or let his knees buckle underneath him, but having Bucky fucking _attack_ his cock like that, like it’s something he’s wanted to do for ages, something he’s fantasized about… It’s hot as hell.

He doesn’t hold back his moans of approval, even moaning Bucky’s name, and Bucky pulls back a little to glance up at him, _wink_ , and then go back in. It’s like he’s worshipping Steve’s cock, the way he runs his lips up and down it, like he’s whispering a prayer. He slides his tongue up and down and around it, finding a rhythm, then breaking it and moving to a new one. It’s like Bucky’s enjoying this as much as Steve is, and Steve finds himself saying Bucky’s name a few more times. His whole body is tingling. Bucky’s warm, wet mouth sliding up and down his cock absorbs his entire mind, and it’s all he can think about.

The pressure builds, and he wants to hold it as long as he possibly can, so this can keep going forever. But the truth is he hasn’t had a lot of experience beyond his own hand, and this is absolutely the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. He’s pretty sure this is the hottest thing that’s ever _happened_. Bucky is loving his cock, and Steve half-expects him to pull back, look up, wipe his mouth, and say, “Thank you so much for this honor.”

The pressure builds and builds until Steve can’t help it any longer – with a final moan, _“Bucky,”_ he comes into Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky looks up at him, making direct eye contact, and there’s pleasure in his own eyes as he swallows. Steve can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he does, and then Bucky licks his lips and Steve nearly faints.

 

Bucky goes into the bathroom to clean off what dripped onto him from Steve’s lips, and Steve sits down on Bucky’s bed and tries not to think too hard about what just happened, so as not to fall from the heady place he’s in.

But as Bucky emerges from the bathroom, announcing, “I usually last a little longer than that but Jesus Steve, I’ve wanted you so long I couldn’t handle _having_ you,” Steve falls anyway. He sees Bucky’s grin and he instantaneously feels guilty.

He’s used him. He’s used him and he has no intention of dating him. He isn’t even sure if he has any intention of doing _this_ again, as difficult as it is to allow himself to think it. He realizes he’s calling the shots, and Bucky’s a good enough person to let him.

That grin. The way Bucky’s looking at him as he crosses the room and comes to sit next to him. Steve isn’t just a casual hook-up to Bucky. They both know it.

Steve turns to Bucky suddenly, his expression serious. “I have to tell you something,” he says.

Bucky’s grin flickers and then fades slowly. “Okay,” he says, blinking a few times. “What is it?”

“My mom just died.” Steve blurts it out and the words sting as they leave his lips.

Bucky looks like Steve’s just reached out and smacked him across the face. He’s not smiling at all now. He’s totally stricken, and any suspicion Steve had that Natasha had told Bucky about his mother vanishes. Bucky definitely did not know this.

“Oh my God…” Bucky says quietly, clearly at a loss for words. Steve sees, out of the corner of his eye, Bucky’s hand twitch toward his, and then stop. “Steve…” His cheeks are still flushed and his hair is still sticking up in every direction thanks to Steve’s fingers, but the shine has left his eyes now and his lips are downturned. Steve has completely stolen his post-orgasm high, and ruined his own, as well.

“I’m sorry to tell you like that, I didn’t want to tell you at all, but I think you have to know. It’s time you knew.” Steve looks down at his lap. Bucky’s just staring. Steve can tell he’s freaking out, and he realizes he shouldn’t have said anything at all. He didn’t want to throw this on Bucky, that was why he didn’t tell him before now. “And that’s why I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now.”

“Did she…when…?” Bucky asks faintly.

“Almost…two months, I guess,” Steve says quietly, chewing his lip.

Bucky nods. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says, “I didn’t realize…” He trails off and looks away.

Steve stands and starts putting on his clothes. “I should leave,” he says.

“You don’t have to!” Bucky exclaims quickly. “I’m not upset you told me! I had a really good time! I’m sorry you’re upset.” He looks pained, and Steve feels extra bad now.

“It’s okay, I have to get home and you have practice to get to…” He tugs on his polo and smooths down his hair. “Will I see you tomorrow? Usual time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking distracted and like he’d completely forgotten. “I’ll see you there. Your apartment. Usual time.”

“Usual time,” Steve repeats, and then he turns and high-tails it out of there, fully regretting saying anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to find me on tumblr, I just changed my url to bisxualsteverogers which I'm kind of proud about... So talk to me there if you want, I always welcome new friends! Thank you ALL for your comments and kudos so far, they're really, really incredible to see. I'm super grateful and I just hope that my updates are enough thanks for all of your support and love.


	12. Bucky Freaks Out and Talks A Lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this took an age and a half to get out to you guys. I'd give excuses but it would just be a long list that starts and ends with schoolwork so I'll apologize by giving you this chapter. It's a little bit shorter than the others, but that's just because it was either going to be 6000 or 3000 words and to write the other half would have been another few days, and I didn't want to make everyone wait. So thanks for being patient, I'm sorry for my cliffhanger, and here you go!

Sunday. 9:07am.

Bucky knows Becca will be up because it’s Sunday, and the Barnes family goes to church on Sundays. She’ll be in the bathroom they used to share, doing her makeup, finally at peace after all the years of Bucky banging on the door yelling at her to quit hogging the bathroom, some people _gotta piss_. But now, as he lifts his phone to his ear, it’s time to bother her once more. She’ll be used to it. His lips curl up in a little smile as he leans against the wall.

He’s in the hallway outside the apartment. There’s a strict no-tolerance rule about noise on weekend mornings, and if he were to wake anyone, especially Todd, he’d hear about it for years. It’s not worth it. So he’s standing in the sweltering heat of the hallway, because the A/C units the building has are in the windows, and there are no windows in the hallway.

And so he sweats. And waits.

“Hello?” Becca’s voice is a little bleary but mostly clear across the phone line.

“Bec! Hiya,” Bucky says cheerily, though he doesn’t exactly _feel_ cheery. As much should be clear, because he’s up on a Sunday morning, calling his sister. This is hardly a weekly tradition. Usually at this point he’s draped across his bed, sheets wadded up around and between his legs, hours from wakefulness.

“What are you doing up?” Becca asks suspiciously. “So excited your little sis is coming soon you couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky barks a laugh. “Yeah, no. It’s not that actually. I need a girl’s advice. I’m kind of having a minor crisis.”

“Ooh, a minor crisis?” Becca asks curiously. Bucky hears water running in the sink in the background. “Okay, what’s up?”

“It has to do with the guy I sort of mentioned when you were here a couple weeks ago. Remember the…weird thing? And how I didn’t know if he was into guys?”

“Yeah? Did you find out?” Her voice is excited.

Bucky cringes. “I found out.”

“How?”

“Uh, it became clear when he was sucking my dick last night.”

A moment passes, and then there’s a clatter as she picks up the phone. “Bucky! I should have told you that you were on speakerphone.”

Bucky laughs. “Oh Jesus. Hello, neighborhood,” he says a little louder, “a man sucked my penis last night! And I enjoyed it! How’s that for a plot twist?”

She groans. “You’re lame and I hate you. So how did you get to that point though? Tell me everything.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, not prepared to tell her _every_ little detail – actually, mostly just the one important detail of how he knows Steve. “Well, I invited him to a show and stuff and we ended up kissing, and then it happened again, and then last night he came over to my place and we fooled around. And it was awesome.” The corners of his mouth quirk up.

“Great,” Becca says, and he can hear her own smile. “That’s great, Bucky! Are you guys gonna be boyfriends? Oh man I can’t wait until you tell Mom and Dad you have a _boyfriend_!”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, “no, that’s the crisis. He doesn’t want a relationship… And after we did that stuff last night, he told me, just like, out of the blue, that his _mom_ just _died_! Like not long ago.”

There’s silence on the line. Bucky rests his head against the wall.

“Oh,” Becca says finally. “Wow. That sucks.”

“Yeah. It sucks. And now I’m kind of freaking out because I had no idea-”

“Would you have done anything differently though, if you _had_ known?” Becca interrupts, effectively shutting Bucky up.

He considers it; would he have? If Natasha had told him, instead of the cryptic “he’s going through a tough time,” that Steve’s mom had recently died and he was having a rough go of it… Would Bucky have done anything differently? Steve would still have been the cute little hipster artist with the quick wit and thick glasses. And really, Steve’s mom had been dead the whole time Bucky’s known Steve, it’s just Bucky’s aware of it now. The whole time, Steve’s been dealing with this shit, and Bucky didn’t realize it. Steve’s gotten up every day and gone to work, or done art, or whatever – despite everything.

“Nah,” Bucky says, “I wouldn’t have done anything differently. But now it’s like, I have to react in some way. I have to say something, don’t I? I have to like…comfort him?”

“Not necessarily,” Becca says, “I mean maybe he doesn’t want that. He didn’t tell you for awhile, right? So maybe he doesn’t want comfort.”

“Why would he tell me at all then?” Bucky asks. Steve confuses the hell out of him. Why would he choose that moment?

“Because maybe he finally was comfortable enough around you,” Becca suggests. “I mean maybe after you guys fooled around he was like, oh, okay, I can trust this guy. He’s cool.” He hears a door close and there’s some rustling. “You’re on speaker again, I’m getting dressed.”

Bucky leans his head back against the wall. “I just feel like he dropped this huge weight on me and I know that it’s selfish to think that, but I’m worried I’ll say something wrong. And that leads me to think, oh, okay, don’t say anything at all. But then _that_ leads me to be like, fuck he might be upset if I don’t say anything at all!”

“You really do overthink things a lot…for a boy,” Becca says; Bucky can hear she’s kind of laughing at him. “It isn’t that big of a deal, Bucky. Yes, it’s really sad for him, and I know the situation’s a little difficult now but it’s not the end of the world. It’s not even the end of you and him! You’re a good guy, Bucky. You always manage to figure out what to say. You just don’t know it.”

Bucky heaves a deep sigh. “Fuck, Bec,” he says, “I wish it didn’t happen to him at all. He’s a really nice guy. I-I hope you get to meet him.” He hopes Steve will still be in his life in a few weeks’ time when Becca moves in to Sarah Lawrence.

“I hope so too,” Becca tells him, “and now I have to go. Sorry, Bucky. You just have to believe in your instincts and follow them. I’m sure you won’t fuck it up too badly. Stop being a mess about it.”

“Easier said than done,” Bucky says gruffly.

“See ya, Buck.”

“See ya.”

He hangs up and stares at the phone for a moment, eyes glazed over, picturing the myriad of ways this could go wrong. He could say ‘Oh hey Steve wow I’m so sorry your mom died that’s awful’ and Steve could start sobbing and throw himself out a window. That’s probably the worst case scenario, actually. So as long as it goes better than that, it won’t be as bad as it could be.

 

12:30pm

Bucky got barely any sleep, so if he’s going to be any kind of alert for his drawing session with Steve, he needs a serious caffeine fix. He heads to Starbucks to take advantage of his employee discount and get something nice and strong. He’s mostly engrossed in reading an article on his phone about some idiotic guy running for president, and when he gets up to the counter, he glances up to see Natasha smiling at him.

“Hey Bucky,” she says, “what’ll you have?”

Bucky places his order and Natasha sets about making it for him. He feels a little jittery now that Natasha’s here; does she know about what they did last night? What does she think?

When she brings him his drink, she’s still smiling. “Steve told me about last night,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “He was fucking glowing, it was gross. Whatever you did, do more of it.”

Bucky tries not to grin too widely when he hears that, but it’s hard not to. Steve was ‘glowing’ afterward? Even after the awkward parting, he’d had a good time? “Thanks.” He glances over to make sure there isn’t too huge of a line. “I just, uh, I’m a little worried I’m going to ruin it.” He probably wouldn’t say anything if he weren’t _way_ more than ‘a little worried.’ “He told me about his mom…”

“Yeah he said he told you.” Natasha gives him a look now, her eyes boring into his. “I just hope to God you have the sense to know what to do with that information, Barnes.”

“Uh.” He swallows heavily. “I do, I think.”

“Good. Steve needs a nice normal fling. And a nice normal boyfriend, but he doesn’t see that yet. He will though.” She taps the counter with her fingernails, gives him a final smile, and says, “Don’t worry, Barnes, just don’t treat him any different and he’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says, his eyes wide, “thanks, Natasha. See you around.” She’s not being that helpful, but it’s not her job to be. She’s Steve’s friend first, Bucky’s friend second. And maybe she’s interested in seeing how Bucky will handle the situation. Frankly, Bucky’s interested in finding that out too.

“See you around,” she echoes, before hurrying off to help the next customer.

Bucky heads out onto the street, feeling a combination of nervous and excited that makes the butterflies in his stomach beat their wings wildly.

 

12:53am

Steve isn’t sure how there can possibly be so many conflicting emotions in one human being at one time. He’s moved from the kitchen to the living room, back to the kitchen, to Sam’s room, to Natasha’s room, to the kitchen again, and back to the living room in the past five minutes. He’s home alone, left to his own devices until Bucky arrives, and he is feeling every single possible thing he could feel about it. He’s nervous, guilty, excited, regretful, terrified, happy…

He’s finally settled on the couch with a sketchpad balanced on his lap, trying to draw a still-life of the remote and one of Natasha’s ballerina magazines on the coffee table, but he’s having no luck concentrating. It’s pretty terrible and his mind is wandering all over the place. He’s counting down the seconds until Bucky arrives, but lying to himself and pretending he’s not really.

The easel has been set up for ages, since he woke up early, unable to sleep because he’d been thinking about Bucky all night. It was a welcome change from lying awake due to nightmares, or the fear of them. But it doesn’t make these last few minutes before he sees Bucky any easier.

The knock comes a little before 1, and Steve bolts to the door, forgetting to feign coolness. He’s beyond acting like he doesn’t care at all about Bucky; apparently, he’s going to be honest and _open_ now. Bucky will be naked but Steve feels like he’s the one who’s more vulnerable. For Bucky, being naked probably isn’t a big deal anymore, not after what they’ve done together. For Steve, though…telling Bucky about his mom, that’s a _huge_ deal. It’s terrifying. And he regrets it while at the same time feeling relief that he doesn’t have to keep it from Bucky anymore.

His biggest concern, he realizes, as he opens the door and gives Bucky a big smile, sees those familiar eyes and feels his stomach clench, is that Bucky will treat him differently. Steve doesn’t want to be taken care of, as much should be clear thanks to the incident at Starbucks when he freaked out over Bucky trying to help him out. He knows it’s irrational and he feels guilty now, but his gut reaction is to dodge any assistance that comes his way. It’s only testament to how much Nat and Sam mean to him that they’re able to get away with so much coddling.

Steve lets Bucky inside, taking in the sight of Bucky’s coffee cup, and then noting the bags under his eyes. “You okay?” he asks. “You look tired.”

“Yeah totally.” Bucky dismisses it with a wave of his hand and a little smile. “I’m fine. Just band practice and stuff was a little crazy last night.” There’s a beat of silence and it’s awkward, and then he stoops to set the empty cup on Steve’s coffee table. “Do you want to sit and talk for a little while?” He motions to the couch.

Steve nods, nervous; is now when Bucky’s going to say something pitying about how he’s so sorry? Is this when he’ll break it off for good because he’s not patient and Steve’s not worth waiting for?

They sit, and Bucky surprises Steve by taking his hand and looking right into his eyes. Steve looks up at him, apprehensive, nervous. Bucky’s eyes reflect Steve’s own emotions. He’s uncertain too.

“So, I’m really glad that you told me what you told me last night,” Bucky says, “and I’m probably going to fuck this up six ways from Sunday but… I just have to address it. If we swept it under the rug and pretended I didn’t even know then it would be a lie, and it would probably still be awkward as hell. And you know it.” He gives Steve a significant look. Steve swallows hard; he does know it. Even though that was what half of him wanted, the other half realized that it wouldn’t be healthy to just ignore it, and that the elephant would sit in the corner, staring them down, breathing heavily, stamping its feet every once in awhile just to remind them it was there, until they acknowledged it. And at that point it would have already done damage to the floor.

“I do,” Steve agrees, giving Bucky the go-ahead to continue talking.

“So I just want to say that I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t want to hear pity but I don’t really _pity_ you. I mean I feel bad that something bad happened to you and it really sucks and I’m sure this is an absolute shitfest of a time… And I hope that maybe I can help somehow. By distracting you, or by bringing you food, or something. I don’t know, Steve. I just don’t want to mess up and do something wrong that makes you angry with me, and have you running off again. You really freaked me out when you got mad at Starbucks. I don’t want to have to wonder if you hate me. I don’t want to have to figure out what I’ve done wrong. And now it sounds like an ultimatum. But I guess it kind of is. Going through a tough time isn’t an excuse for everyone around you to start lying and telling you what they think you want to hear. So I decided to just be honest.”

Steve’s jaw is hanging loose, and he’s staring at Bucky; he doesn’t know how to react to what he’s hearing, isn’t sure if Bucky’s angry at him or not, but fortunately, Bucky isn’t quite finished.

“And as long as honesty is my policy, I should tell you that I like you. I really like you. I would date you, Steve. And I was upset that you didn’t want to date me, but now I get it. I can’t imagine what you must feel like right now, and I tried and failed to know how I’d feel if I were you. So I’m just going to put it on the line and say I’d date you and I like you a lot, I have a massive fucking crush on you, Steve Rogers. And I’ll wait. I’ll wait a little while or I’ll wait a long while. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I’ll come at any time of the day or night to watch movies and eat ice cream, or to fool around and have sex in Natasha’s bed if that’s what will make you happy. I just want us to be part of each other’s lives.” He pauses, and Steve can see him thinking, running through what he’s just said in his head, and then Bucky makes a face. “So that was sappy. Sorry. It kind of had to be. Excuse my word vomit.”

Steve’s still just staring. Bucky didn’t go on and on about how sorry he was, and how strong Steve was, and how he could get through this; he didn’t beg Steve to date him, or tell him that he shouldn’t feel any particular way; he didn’t tell him what he should and shouldn’t do, but he did tell him that it was wrong for Steve to have stormed away the day before at Starbucks. He isn’t treating Steve like a delicate little flower. And that’s a gigantic relief.

So the only response Steve can think of is to surge forward, throw his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, and kiss him soundly. Bucky’s surprised for only a moment, and then he starts to kiss back; Steve can feel his muscles loosening as the kiss goes on. Bucky had been just as tensed as Steve, and now, with everything having been said, he’s relaxing into Steve’s arms.

After a few wordless moments, Steve pulls back. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says. “I just felt surprised that you would do that, and I know it wasn’t a big deal, but I don’t take that well to being coddled. But I know you weren’t doing that. I know you were just being nice. It freaked me out. That’s not an excuse, it’s just an explanation. I’m sorry again.” He kisses him again. He doesn’t know how to respond to the rest, so he snakes his fingers through Bucky’s hair and holds onto him tight, worried that someone as good as Bucky, as selfless and caring and funny and sexy, will slip away from him. Worried that all good things must die, and this is a very, _very_ good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: DRAWING FIVE!   
> Thanks as always for your incredible support, I love you all <3


	13. Someone Other Than Steve Removes Their Head From Their Ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as an apology gift for this taking awhile and being on the short side, I got you guys a present! The lovely sargeantstuckbutts on tumblr drew one of the pictures Steve drew of Bucky - the third painting, to be exact, with Bucky laughing and standing by the window. And she did an AMAZING job. So I'm obviously sharing it with you guys! Scroll to the end of the chapter for it - it's NSFW, obviously, so just a warning. :)

Sunday. 2:03pm

They’ve been kissing for too long. Steve’s shirt is on the coffee table and Bucky’s is behind the couch, where Steve had thrown it after doing a little lasso motion. He’s adorable and Bucky’s _dying_ because all he wants is for this little artist to tell him he’s his forever. It feels like that would make everything else in his life fall into place, just having Steve’s love, but as Steve pulls back from the kiss and starts undoing Bucky’s pants and says, “We should really get drawing now,” Bucky pushes all thoughts of _love_ from his mind. He’s being ridiculous, he’s falling head over heels and he should really get a grip on himself. He can’t let these feelings for Steve take over everything else, like the rational parts of his mind that know love is only one thing and that having some guy love him wouldn’t suddenly make all of his life work out. In high school he’d thought that about Maddie. He figured if he had her he’d magically have everything, or that not having everything wouldn’t matter anymore.

Now he knows that having Steve love him wouldn’t get his band a record deal; having Steve love him wouldn’t serve to make his parents accept his sexuality and life choices – in fact, he’s pretty sure it would only make it _worse_.

But God, wouldn’t it be something?

Steve gets up once he’s undone Bucky’s pants. “Stay there,” he commands, and who is Bucky to disobey? He nods and remains lying back on the couch, head on the pillow that smells like Steve. He watches the small artist as he fumbles for his glasses on the coffee table for a moment before Bucky reaches over languidly and plucks them up with his fingers and hands them to Steve. Steve laughs and puts them on and Bucky stares up at him with a cocky little smile spreading his lips.

Steve goes over to the easel, still shirtless, and Bucky wants his hands _all over_ him. Steve’s skin beneath Bucky’s fingers seems like a solution to _everything_ , an excuse to then go and die happy. It even seems like a solution to Steve’s sadness, though Bucky knows that it’s hulking and black and there’s nothing he can do about it, not immediately, maybe not ever.

He watches, though, and thinks about it; Steve’s silence is heavy, it always is, and Bucky wonders if he’s thinking about him at all. He wiggles his pants and then his underwear off and kicks them to the floor. Steve looks up at him; their eyes lock; Bucky refuses to look away, and it doesn’t take long for Steve to duck his head, predictably, with a blush dressing his cheeks in red. Bucky giggles a little. Steve is thinking about him _now_ , at least.

Bucky has never felt a connection like this, probably couldn’t have even imagined it before now, but here he is, thinking that he knows exactly what Steve is thinking and feeling, thinking he can feel his heartbeat, somehow, against his own chest, though they’ve got the room between them.

_Jesus_. He lets out a breathy laugh as Steve starts to draw. The artist’s eyes flick up to him, and Bucky shrugs easily. “Stay still,” Steve commands, levelling Bucky with a serious expression and an adorable pinched mouth, but eyes that betray his amusement. Bucky goes ramrod straight, perfectly still, staring at the ceiling.

He _knows_ he can feel Steve’s eye roll. “Relax, and then stay still,” Steve says in a tone that makes it sound like he’s talking to a petulant child.

Bucky relaxes and turns to face Steve, his head still resting against the pillow, breathing in the scent of him. He imagines that they’re still on the couch, still kissing, still lost in the hills and valleys of each other. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

 

Steve finishes the drawing with a little flourish of his hand and a grin on his face. He picks up the easel and turns it so Bucky can see it. “Alright check it out,” he says.

Bucky’s startled a little by the suddenness of it; where once he couldn’t wait for it to be over and for him to be released from the hell of his nakedness and the unfamiliarity between them, he’s now nearly forgotten he was naked at all. But there is his starkly naked body, drawn by Steve’s hand, and Bucky pushes himself upright and then stands. He goes to Steve and the easel, looks at it closely, and then turns to Steve. “When MoMA comes to you and wants to display these, you don’t have my permission,” he says. “These are fucking awesome, Steve.”

“I don’t have your permission?” Steve frowns, looks up at him with puppy dog eyes, and Bucky realizes in that moment that, even though Steve’s kidding, Bucky is _whipped_. He would do anything for Steve. He really would.

“No,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “In fact, you should burn them all. Right now. I demand it.”

“I should _never_ have worked with a rock star,” Steve mutters, “you guys are all brats. I work my ass off for weeks, and for what recognition?”

“I’m _naked_!” Bucky exclaims. “This is an invasion of my privacy!” He’s trying not to laugh. Steve is so cute, and he plays along so well.

“An invasion of your privacy? I _knew_ I should have made up a waiver!” Steve throws his hands up. “I can’t work with you!”

“ _You_ can’t work with _me_?” Bucky jabs his finger into his own bare chest. “Then I quit! I quit if you can’t work with me so bad! Forget your last painting! Forget your entire career!” Somehow he’s slipped into a Brooklyn accent he doesn’t even have, laying it on thicker than the one in Steve’s natural voice.

At that moment, of course, the door to the apartment opens, and Sam walks in with Natasha right behind him. Sam is holding a carrier with four Starbucks drinks in it, and he nearly drops it when he sees that Bucky’s still standing there naked. He brings up his free hand to cover his eyes, while a grin slowly spreads across Natasha’s face behind him.

“Hello, boys,” the redhead says, moving past Sam and flopping down on the couch. “How’s it going?”

Bucky’s beet red, and now covering his dick with his hands. “Thanks for knocking,” he mutters bitterly.

“Do _you_ knock before you walk into your own apartment?” Natasha tilts her head. The sass is astounding. She and Steve must feed off each other.

“I would if I knew there might be a- something happening in the living room!” Steve exclaims indignantly.

Bucky moves so he’s standing behind the easel, peering over it. Only his mussed-up hair (thanks to Steve’s fingers), forehead, and eyes are visible. Sam uncovers his eyes and moves quickly to set down the coffees, pick up Bucky’s pants and underwear, which are wadded up in a ball at the foot of the couch, and throw them to Steve, who hands them over the easel to Bucky with an apologetic look in his eyes and an ‘I’m sorry’ on his lips.

Bucky pulls on his clothes quickly while Steve says, “I didn’t think you guys were getting back until… oh.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun, Stevie,” Natasha drawls. Bucky can hear her sip her coffee. He steps out from behind the easel, shirtless but at least his dick isn’t hanging out like a mantelpiece anymore.

Steve takes a step toward him, like he’s being protective, or maybe it’s involuntary. Bucky smiles to himself when he does it.

Natasha makes a gagging noise, and Sam says, “You guys want coffee? We assumed you’d be, uh, done by now.”

“They’re clearly done.” Natasha waves toward the drawing, which is still proudly displayed on the easel. Bucky and Steve both immediately move to cover it with their bodies, though of course Bucky needn’t be embarrassed by a drawing of his naked body because Natasha and Sam have just been treated with an eyeful of the real thing. Their sudden movement results in a collision; they laugh. Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s elbow, and resists the urge to pull him in and kiss him.

They don’t see Sam and Natasha exchange a look, like they’re absolutely fed up with this shit.

Bucky puts on a shirt, and Steve does the same, and they sit next to each other on the floor in front of the coffee table while Sam and Natasha sit on the couch behind them, and they all watch a couple episodes of the Office on Netflix. It feels comfortable, and Bucky’s glad. He’s glad Sam and Natasha brought him a coffee; he’s glad Steve didn’t want him to leave when the drawing was finished; he’s glad he was able to tell Steve how he feels; and in his gladness, he slowly slumps against Steve and, eventually, drifts off to sleep against him, to make up for all the sleep he missed out on because of his worrying over the guy the night before.

Steve doesn’t mind. In fact, he falls asleep himself not too long after.

 

Sam hits Back to Browse when they get to the end of an episode, after he realized Steve and Bucky had both fallen asleep halfway through. He motions to Natasha to get up, presses a finger to his lips, and a laugh escapes her throat before she presses her hand over her mouth and nods at him, her eyes still laughing. She gets up and follows him into her bedroom, where he closes the door firmly behind them and turns to her.

He launches right into it: “I refuse to walk in on them again. I refuse to do it. We’re buying Steve a bed, and we’re putting it in my bedroom. I don’t care if he’s still determined to sleep on the goddamn _couch_. He’s not doing it anymore.”

Natasha nods her agreement. “Yeah he’s a stubborn weirdo but he’s not going to be a stubborn weirdo on the couch for much longer. I also hate tiptoeing around him in the morning.”

“So we’re agreed then.” Sam pulls out his phone. “We could just get a mattress and put it in my room on the floor-”

“Or,” Natasha interrupts loudly, silencing him; his dark eyes flick up to meet hers, “what if you moved into my room? I have a big enough bed for both of us.” She nods at it. His eyes rake slowly from hers down to the bed. They only ever shared a bed once; after a New Year’s Party at Nick’s in Manhattan when they all got drunk and he and Natasha came back home at 4am, drank the wine they had in the fridge, and then collapsed into her bed together. That was before Steve lived with them, before Sam even realized he was hopelessly in love with her, and in fact, it probably served as a catalyst for his feelings.

He’d woken up in the morning with all the blankets on his side and Natasha gone with a note on her pillow that said ‘Gone to park to get over hangover don’t barf in my bed x’ and he’d puzzled over the x ever since.

“You really want to share your bed?” Sam asks, looking at her quizzically.

“Yes, idiot, I wouldn’t say I did if I didn’t really,” Natasha says, crossing her arms. “I’ve obviously thought it over, Sam. And I think it’s a good idea. He can have the room to do his whatever with Bucky and you and I can have this room. I don’t mind sharing, you’re one of my…” A hesitation, Sam’s heart pounds, “best friends.” There are implications in her eyes and the way the two words fell off her tongue and he feels like he’s going to have to sit down. She can’t really mean this. She doesn’t really want to share a room, a _bed_ … in _that_ way. She doesn’t really want that, after all this time. This can’t be when she finally admits what they should be, what they practically are.

Natasha rolls her eyes, then turns serious. “Let’s stop being stupid, Sam.” She’s looking directly into his eyes, something she doesn’t do often. “I keep thinking how stupid those idiots out there are,” she motions to the door, and Steve and Bucky, sleeping on the living room floor, “and it made me realize that we’re kind of idiots too.”

Sam nods because he agrees, _yes_ he fucking _agrees_ , they are idiots. “I was just letting you take your time to…”

“Sort myself out?” She laughs hollowly. “I’m never going to be sorted out, Sam, not really, that’s not who I am. But God I want to have you, and not just in a surface way, or a fake way, or an _almost maybe kind of_ way. In a real way.”

This must be what it feels like to be proposed to, Sam thinks, after you’ve been waiting and waiting. Waiting and waiting.

“Sorry I took a long time. I kept thinking I’d deserve you, all of a sudden, one day, and it would instantly be perfect. But it’s not going to happen like that. I get that now.” She puts a hand on his cheek, looks at him with an earnest expression, and Sam leans in almost involuntarily. “You can stop holding yourself back. I’m tired of this.”

“Me too,” he says, and the words release something in his mind, and he surges forward and kisses her, fully and well, on the lips. He puts a hand on her arm and another on her waist, and he kisses her.

And she kisses back.

And in the living room, Steve and Bucky slump to the floor, Bucky’s arm around the smaller boy, his quiet breaths keeping time with Steve’s light snoring.

 

 

 

 

\--

Steve's third drawing:


	14. Steve is Sad and Mattresses Play Into Things in a Different Way From What You'd Expect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I am deeply sorry that this has taken nearly two months to get out. I have a couple of excuses (NaNoWriMo, wisdom teeth surgery, final exams, and the holiday season) but mostly I just have a huge apology. So I'm really sorry. I hope this makes up for it.  
> Second, this is the end. Chapter 14 is the penultimate chapter, and chapter 15 is the final chapter! I was going to upload them together and have it just be a longer one, but then a natural split appeared and I really just had to roll with it. So I'm uploading this one right now, and chapter 15 will be up tomorrow or the next day. Don't worry, I will NOT make you guys wait as long as I did last time! I promise! (Though I get that you have no reason to trust me for which I, again, am apologetic.

Monday. 6:53am.

It’s been a long night, one in which Steve did not visit dreams at all. Rather, he’s spent it with himself and his twisting thoughts, all of them writhing around his brain, shouting at him, telling him that things were not okay, and that they only seemed okay, but that he was a terrible person for having a good day, and that he didn’t deserve Bucky ever and especially not right now, and Bucky was only going to break his heart and hurt him.

His thoughts spun and spun, and Sam and Natasha were in Natasha’s room, and he knew in the back of his mind that something may have happened between them to change things, but he couldn’t do anything, he couldn’t knock and ask, he couldn’t… He just couldn’t.

So he didn’t. He just sat on the couch and tried to watch more Netflix after Bucky left because he had a show. He tried to eat something but a gnawing feeling had started to grow in his stomach when Bucky closed the door, and he couldn’t- he just couldn’t.

The cemetery is closed when he gets to the big iron gates that separate its green expanse – grey, now, in the pre-dawn light – from the concrete of Brooklyn, where his mother had demanded she be buried, when they’d managed to broach the subject of _next_. What’s _next_ , after all the medicine and drugs and lost hair and time.

Next is here, and it’s ugly, and it looks a lot like a big lock on the gates. Steve slumps against it, the iron rungs of the gate pressing against the skin of his back. Someone walks by and blows out a stream of smoke into the air right in front of Steve so it floats down slowly through the thick air to his lungs, and Steve coughs. He coughs and coughs, and he doubles over, and turns his head, and looks back into the cemetery, amidst the graves, where she is… But she can’t climb out and help him. She can’t crawl from the dirt to pat him on the back.

And in that moment, scrunched up on the sidewalk in Brooklyn beneath a yellow streetlight illuminating him against the backdrop of grey graves and grass, the back of his mind allows a thought: he just wants someone to help him.

He can’t accept it, but he wants it.

 

Monday. 10:01am.

**Steve: Do you have work today?**

**Bucky: No why do you want to do something?**

**Steve: can I come over?**

**Bucky: yeah sure nobody’s around!**

**Steve: Be there in a bit**

Bucky’s surprised, because it’s a Monday morning. Steve’s text had woken him up, as it caused the phone to buzz right next to his head. He’d gotten in at 3 in the morning after playing a late show and having a drink with his bandmates. His dreams were vivid, with bright colors and lots of movement; Steve was in most of them. He’d had such a good time at Steve’s the day before, because Sam and Nat were so nice and Steve was comfortable. He could tell that Steve was having a good day, and that makes Bucky feel good – ridiculously, inappropriately good.

He can’t help it. He wants good things for the little hipster artist – so what? Sue him.

Steve arrives not long after the text exchange, and he barely gets in the door before Bucky detects there’s something wrong. It’s a little disappointing, especially since Bucky knows he had such a good day the day before, but of course that’s how things happen sometimes. The night seems colder after the day was warm.

So he follows his instincts and wraps Steve into a hug – or, tries to, but Steve stops him and then he’s jamming his lips into Bucky’s. Bucky pauses because he’s surprised, but then he kisses back, though it feels desperate as hell and their teeth clank together. Steve’s clawing at his back like he’s trying to climb him like a tree, and it doesn’t feel quite right.

Bucky pulls away first, and gives him a knowing look. “Steve…” he says slowly, uncertainly, because does he really want to go down this path? Does Steve want to?

“I need a distraction after the shittiest night,” Steve says, his voice low, and Bucky looks him over. He tries to read his expression and think about what he _should_ do.

Because he knows what he wants to do – or, what part of him wants to do. He wants to fuck him and let him forget. But this is the real world, it’s not just a movie. This isn’t _Friends with Benefits_. Things don’t work like this.

“Well I don’t know if that’s really the best idea…” Bucky says slowly. “Maybe I’ll just make some tea and we can watch Netflix or something?” Steve doesn’t seem like he’s in the right mind. And even though Bucky really wants it – really, _really_ does – and if Steve weren’t Steve, and Bucky didn’t know so much, then he’d probably just do it. Because it’s what Steve’s asking for.

But the look in his eyes isn’t one of certainty – it’s fear, and sadness, and confusion. Bucky doesn’t want to mess with that. He doesn’t want to make it worse, which he knows he would by having sex with Steve right now, in this state. This is not how it should happen. Yes, Bucky had said he’d help in any way, but this is absolutely not what he’d meant. He knows that repressing feelings in favor of having sex is never good. And Steve’s new to most of this, and Bucky wants his first experiences to be positive – this wouldn’t be positive. This could be damaging, and he’s already so fragile…

“I don’t want to do that, I’ve tried it,” Steve says. “That’s not gonna help. C’mon, Buck.” He leans up to kiss him again but Bucky turns his head.

“No. Not like this,” he says firmly. “We aren’t doing this, Steve. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Let me decide what would hurt me!” Steve exclaims, sounding desperate, but Bucky thinks he isn’t really desperate for sex. “This wouldn’t! I’m _already_ hurt!”

“I’m not doing it.” Bucky steps away, even though it’s a little difficult to do. Because Steve is just so…Steve. And he’s _begging_ for it.

Steve glares, grinds his teeth. “Bucky. Everything is falling apart, and I just need…something.”

“Well this isn’t what you need,” Bucky tells him. He’s trying to be calm and firm and all that, but the way Steve’s looking at him is unnerving and…angry.

“Maybe it is!”

There’s a silence that lasts a few moments after he says this, while Bucky tries to think of a response. He’s made his position clear. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out. When he’d pictured doing this, it didn’t look like this; it didn’t look so crazed and hurt.

“Well.” Steve clears his throat. “I’m just going to go then.”

Bucky’s protest never leaves his throat before Steve’s gone.

Steve regrets it by the time his feet hit the sidewalk, but he’s too far, and his thoughts are too crazy.

He’d been _tempted_ , of course, to just stay and let Bucky care for him, but somehow that felt worse than using him for sex. Using him for his blankets and tea and then leaving without giving him anything more.

He has feelings for Bucky, but he can’t act on them. Not right now. Maybe they can table all of this for a few months from now when Steve doesn’t lose feeling in his toes and fingers every time he walks by the bus he and his mother took on the way to preschool years ago. But right now, he doesn’t know if he should do it. He doesn’t know if he can. He’s too… well, that scene at Bucky’s is an indication – he’s all over the place. He’s crazy. How could he possibly handle a relationship? He’s never done a relationship before so he doesn’t even know for sure what he’d have to do to make it work.

He just doesn’t know if he _can_ right now. He’d rather wait and give it a shot when there’s a chance in hell it’ll work out, not now, when he feels like he’s falling apart with every step.

When he gets home, Sam and Natasha seem like they’ve been waiting for him. It’s the middle of the day, but Sam holds up his phone. “Wasn’t going to out him but your bae texted, said he’s worried about you. So I left work because, you know,” he fake-coughed, and Natasha rolled her eyes and cut him off—

“We’re taking you mattress shopping. You’re getting your own room.”

Steve’s jaw nearly hits the floor but Natasha waves off any response by saying, “The only thing we’re talking about today is mattresses, unless you want to tell us why you watched 10 episodes of Doctor Who on Netflix last night?”

Steve glares – _how is that even relevant?_ – and she nods, satisfied. “Great. Let’s get going, there are sales to be had!”

\--

Mattress shopping, it turns out, isn’t that difficult. Everything feels comfortable to Steve, who’s used to the couch. Sam and Natasha have too much fun moving from bed to bed though, rating them all on a scale from 1 to 47 and bickering when their numbers differ by more than 10. (Steve wanders away during the Great Gel Mattress Debate, and Natasha comes and finds him lying on the mattress she gave a healthy 35, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is his life now.)

Natasha flops down next to him. She cups her left hand over his right. “It’s okay to have particularly bad nights,” she says, staring up at the ceiling along with him. “But it’s not okay to let those nights bleed into the next day, because then the blood will drip into the next night, and then the next day, and so on. And soon you’ll look up and realize you’ve been sad for a year, and it’s harder to get happy after being sad since Christmas. It’s easier to get happy when you only have to reach back 12 hours to remember the feeling.”

And then she double-pats his hand and sits up. “Is this the one?”

Sam comes over from the gel area and sits down on it. “It’s acceptable,” he says.

They both turn to Steve, who sits up slowly, still turning over Natasha’s words in his mind. “Yeah,” he says, as if drawing his response from far away. “I like this one.”

So they buy it.

 

Tuesday

Steve goes to work and listens to the same five songs play on the radio the whole time. The door opens and closes, and he helps customers, but he doesn’t think. He can’t concentrate on anything. People are a blur before his eyes and his customer service lacks a human aspect. He is a robot, he goes through the motions, he doesn’t even smile.

A woman comes in and chews him out because they don’t have the book she wanted in stock. He tries to explain that they don’t usually get brand new books in for a bit, but she won’t hear it. He wants to lay down on the counte, stare at the ceiling, and tell her in an empty voice that it’s been two months since his mother died, and he doesn’t know what’s up, down, right, or wrong anymore.

A man comes in and browses the shelves for half an hour before leaving without buying anything. As he goes, Steve wants to reach out and grab his arm, whisper in his ear the story of Bucky Barnes, and the innumerable ways he’s messed up this one good thing, but he doesn’t quite care.

In between customers, he stares out the window, watching people pass by and wondering if he’s a bad person. He feels like one. Bucky so clearly wants more, and Steve is terrible for not giving it to him.

He catches himself hoping that Bucky will come through the door, and this is the worst thought. He feels more selfish than ever. Bucky shouldn’t be visiting him at work, not when he’s using him like this, or trying to. Not when he’s denying him the relationship that he – for some unknown reason – wants.

He tries to remember what Natasha said – it’s easier to get happy when you only have to reach back 12 hours – but it’s difficult. Mostly, he feels guilty.

And that’s the worst part – he isn’t missing his mom, not today. Today, he’s missing Bucky.

 

Wednesday

Bucky is distracted at band practice.

Steve had texted him the night before but the conversation was lacking in substance so they let it drop. He’d gone over to Clint’s and played a video game and ignored the feelings that were exploding all throughout his ribcage. He’s hurt, and worried, and scared for Steve, and sad that they can’t be together. There’s also a little bit of anger with Steve for keeping them both from this for illogical reasons, but he tells himself he can’t _possibly_ understand what Steve’s going through, and that he shouldn’t question his actions if he doesn’t understand them. And he shouldn’t take it so personally, either. He tries not to.

Now he feels like this is the millionth practice he’s been distracted at, and they have a gig the next night. He’s trying, but he’s off.

He can’t stop thinking about how Steve seemed so upset, and how he wouldn’t let Bucky do anything for him like make him soup or tea, or put on a movie. The whole thing feels like it’s over, and that feels worse than he’d thought it possibly could.

 

Thursday. 12:37pm.

It’s an abnormally cool day, so Steve decides to walk to class rather than take the subway all the way like he usually does. There’s a nice wind blowing, one Manhattan hasn’t seen in a long time, that feels like fresh air. He tells himself as he walks that he’s going to have a good day. Today will be the turning point, and the only direction he can possibly turn from here is up – so up he will go. He’s carrying the drawings in his portfolio, and he’s heading to turn them in, so he takes a quick snapchat of his hand holding the case and sends it off to Bucky. He feels awful, and he doesn’t know if Bucky even wants to talk to him. He has to keep trying though. They’d texted but it was a little awkward and nothing was really discussed. He wants to have some semblance of friendship with Bucky, even if it isn’t a relationship or anything like it. He doesn’t want to have completely ruined that. He needs to make it up to him, but isn’t sure he’s welcome in Bucky’s life anymore.

A block later, Bucky’s calling him. Steve answers, wary because Bucky has every right to yell at him now. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says. It’s quiet on Bucky’s end, but Steve turns up the volume and presses the phone to his good ear.

“What’s up?” Steve asks. He can’t imagine why Bucky’s calling him.

“Just wanted to say good luck with turning in the drawings and stuff!” Bucky sounds a little nervous. He’s probably afraid Steve will freak out again.

“Oh? Well thanks.” Steve doesn’t want to blow this conversation but he can feel the awkwardness through the phone.

“And I, um, I was just thinking maybe we could hang out? After your class maybe.” Bucky’s nerves seem to be mounting and Steve can practically feel his heart pounding.

“Oh! Yeah, I’d like that actually. Look Bucky I want to apologize…” Steve says quickly. He feels terrible for how he acted, how he begged for sex and then just left when Bucky wouldn’t give it to him. He should have turned around and apologized immediately, or called and apologized later, but he was so wrapped up in his mind, and he’d worried that Bucky didn’t want to hear from him at all, especially when texting was awkward.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky dismisses quickly. “When do you get out? I can meet you for food maybe?”

Steve pushes down the thoughts that scramble up the sides of his mind declaring _it’s a date! It’s a date!_

Because it is not a date.

“That sounds great,” he says. “I get out at 2.”

“Okay you pick the place,” Bucky says.

“Great, I’ll pay,” Steve replies quickly. Because he needs to make it up to Bucky somehow.

“I’ll let you. Good luck with turning your project in!” Bucky says.

“Yeah thanks! See you later,” Steve says.

“Okay love you bye!” The line drops.

Steve nearly drops his phone. He _actually_ stops walking. He takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it; Bucky’s definitely hung up. The conversation didn’t even last two minutes. And yet everything’s shifted now.

_Okay love you bye!_

_Okay love you bye!_

It echoes through Steve’s mind as he remembers himself, somehow, and starts moving again, so he isn’t blocking the flow of the sidewalk traffic. But all he can hear is a rushing in his ears, and the rushing is made up of those four words: _okay love you bye!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINAL chapter coming VERY soon!


	15. The End (but actually the beginning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go...

Bucky stares at his phone like it’s just taken out a knife and threatened to take all he’s got. He’d panicked after he heard those words come out of his mouth, and his finger jabbed the END button like it had a mind of its own. His brain is working overtime, trying to catch up to what the _hell_ just happened. His heart threatens to break its way out of his chest, it’s beating so fast.

Because he did not mean to say that. He absolutely, one hundred percent did _not_ mean to tell Steve he loved him. Because…he doesn’t!

Well.

He had no intention of admitting it to himself – or, for the love of God, _Steve_ – for a very long time. He’d planned on and been perfectly happy with just going on forever and not thinking about it.

Now, Heaven help him, he’s got to deal with this.

His first thought, as he goes into his contacts, is to call Steve back and say he’s sorry. But then he considers how that would sound – I’m sorry I told you I loved you – and it seems like a bad plan. Especially when there’s a possibility – however distant – that he really did mean it.

So he calls Becca. She picks up on the second ring and barely says “Hello?” before Bucky’s words are flying fast out of his mouth: “I accidentally told Steve – the guy who, you know – that I loved him on the phone but I didn’t mean to tell him and he’s not happy with me and it’s awkward please tell me what to do!”

Becca doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he hears a rustling and she says, “Okay, so how did this happen? How do you _accidentally_ tell someone that you _love_ them?”

Bucky shrugs. “It just happened! I just said it! I don’t know! I was just hanging up and it came out like… Okay love you bye. Like that. Literally.”

“Well what did he say?” Becca asks pragmatically, speaking slowly, calmly.

But he’s not calming down. “I hung up before he could say anything!”

Becca doesn’t respond for a moment, and then when she does, it’s to say, “Jesus Bucky you’re such an idiot.”

Bucky’s slightly taken aback, but at this particular moment, he happens to agree with her. “Yes. Help me, please.”

“I don’t know, that’s never happened to me before,” Becca says. “Do you love him?”

“Maybe?” Bucky supplies. “I don’t know.”

Rebecca sighs, and he hears it clearly over the phone; can picture the expression on her face that goes with it. “So you do?”

“Yeah. I might. But listen, it’s not going to happen with him, at least not right now. I don’t even know if we’re _really_ on speaking terms! I just called to ask him to hang out to see if we are. Because a weird thing happened and now it’s just awkward and weird between us.” What happened to the Bucky who used to be able to at least _pretend_ to be cool and suave about things?

“A weird thing happened?”

“Well. He begged for sex and I said no,” Bucky admits bluntly.

He can hear her surprise in her silence, and before she can voice it, he says, “Shut up. It’s complicated.”

“This whole thing is so weird it’s amazing you actually have feelings for him,” Becca tells him in a frank tone of voice.

“Yes! I know. But he’s just really great.”

“So what, you think he’s mad at you?”

“Could be.”

Becca sighs. “Yeah okay. And now you’ve gone and told him you love him.”

“Right.”

“Well you can tell him you didn’t mean it, or you can hope he forgets it,” she says. “Just call him back and say you’re sorry.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment as he turns over in his mind whether or not that would be a lie. Is he sorry? Part of him likes that it’s out in the open, even though the _other_ part of him still isn’t sure if it’s true.

“Unless you aren’t sorry,” Becca says, correctly interpreting his silence. “Are you sorry? Or are you relieved it’s out there? Do you love him or not?”

Silence. Then, “I gotta go,” Bucky says. And he hangs up for the second time in five minutes. He knows the answer. He knew it as the words came out of his mouth, and in the following moment when it didn’t even occur to him to take them back.

\--

**Steve, 12:43:** 911

**Sam, 12:44:** what happened? You okay?

**Steve, 12:44:** Bucky said he loves me

**Steve, 12:44:** But it may have been an accident

**Steve, 12:44:** IDK! Help

**Sam, 12:45:** are you happy or no?

**Steve, 12:45:** no!!!!! not what I wanted

**Sam, 12:47:** not what you wanted? You sure?

**Steve, 12:49:** YES

**Sam, 12:49:** from what I’ve seen bucky is a nice guy and you guys seem happy together, idk the issue steve

**Steve, 12:50:** if he loves me that’s bad though

**Steve, 12:50:** he said it on the phone and then hung up so idk if he meant it

**Sam, 12:51:** let’s assume he did. What’s the worst part?

**Steve, 12:53:** the part where he LOVES ME!!

**Sam, 12:54:** no offense steve but you’re being dumb.

**Sam, 12:55:** bucky doesn’t mind that you’re going through a hard time. That’s clear. I’ve loved Natasha through all her lowest points.

**Sam, 12:55:** there’s no point in denying yourself what you want bc of arbitrary things you’ve decided. Your mom would want you happy.

**Steve, 12:57:** ugh

Steve sits down in his seat in the classroom, his portfolio resting against his legs. He’s supposed to get up in front of everyone and talk about the experience, but at the moment his world is reeling and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He’d planned on winging it, but that’s looking harder and harder as his palms get sweatier.

The girl who sits in the front row and volunteers first for everything is heading to the front of the room and holding up her drawings in order. “I drew my best friend,” she starts, and Steve tunes everything out from there, staring blankly at her as she cycles through the six drawings.

_She wasn’t supposed to draw her best friend,_ Steve thinks bitterly. If he’d drawn his best friend he wouldn’t have this issue right now. He could have done Sam. Why did he not draw Sam?

Sam’s words echo through his mind, mixing with Bucky’s ( _okay love you bye_ ): _I’ve loved Natasha through all her lowest points._ This is a low point for him, sure, and he can’t figure out why Bucky would say that he loves him.

He takes out his phone, types a text to Bucky: **Do you really love me?** but erases it before he hits send and throws his phone back into his bag.

The next girl stands up, holding drawings of another girl. “This is my sister’s friend,” she starts. “I’ve known her for years but never like this…”

_Okay love you bye._

Steve’s world starts spinning and for a moment he feels like he might vomit. He nearly stands up and bolts out the door, but instead, he threads his fingers through his hair, gripping at his scalp to remind himself where and who he is.

Maybe Bucky doesn’t really love him. It could have been one of those things where you accidentally say it when you don’t really mean it.

But that doesn’t mean that Steve’s heart didn’t soar to meet the tops of the buildings when he heard it, just before it plummeted and brought panic down with it.

And Bucky hadn’t exactly taken it back. Wouldn’t he have texted or called back to say he didn’t mean it if he didn’t?

Shit.

Everyone in the class gets up and presents; Steve notices that most people haven’t actually done the project correctly. The majority of them chose people they already knew at least partially. Steve is one of a handful of people who actually drew a total stranger. So now he feels kind of stupid and embarrassed.

Finally he can’t delay anymore, he has to get up and present. He stands and goes to the front of the room; everyone watches him, and he can see pity in most of their eyes.

He opens his portfolio and pulls out the first drawing. “I, uh, I drew this guy Bucky. He works with one of my friends.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t know him at all. This was the first time I met him.” He glances at the drawing and he can feel the awkwardness in it. It looks rushed, and the area around Bucky’s cock is almost laughably undetailed.

_“I’ve never actually done this before.”_

_“Well I’m a professional naked model so…”_

He can hear Bucky’s voice in his mind, can picture the moment he realized he was screwed, and it was before Bucky even took off his clothes.

He sets it down and takes out the next drawing as he speaks. “It was awkward. Like I said, the first time I ever met him was when I had to draw him…naked. But he took it pretty well. He was a sport about it.” He remembers the beginning, the awkward jokes, the way the air felt hot and stiff. But God was he beautiful anyway.

_“You religious?”_

_“A little. Maybe not.”_

_“Well it’s for the best. Because this confession would be awkward as fuck.”_

_“Father, forgive me, but I have drawn another man naked for an art class.”_

_“Wonder if that’s worse than drawing a woman naked.”_

_“The age old question.”_

He takes out the next drawing, feeling more confident, forgetting for the moment his crisis and just remembering the Sundays. “We started to get a little bit more comfortable with each other. A bit. It was just an awkward situation so it was kind of difficult, but we started talking. I decided to try to get more natural poses. I got him laughing in this one.” He gestures. “And I think it might be my favorite, honestly. He’s a musician. He invited me to one of his shows.” He doesn’t say, It was the best night of my summer. Even though it was.

_“I also found out there’s a museum in Iceland called The Icelandic Phallological Museum and it has 280 penises on display and gets 11,000 visitors a year.”_

_“My kind of museum.”_

_“Yeah, mine too.”_

His heart is racing but it isn’t because everyone is watching him; he barely even registers that they’re here. He pulls out the fourth drawing, and takes a look at it – the unfinished one, the one that he had to stop because he was so turned on and wanted to make out with Bucky.

“We became friends and started spending time together outside of the drawing sessions which was nice.”

He’s speaking but his mind is stuck on their first kiss in the green room. The way it felt so new and wonderful, so _Bucky_.

And how he nearly ruined it by leaving.

His heart gets it at the same time as his head, and he nearly says it out loud: _Oh._

_Duh._

He pulls out the fifth drawing very quickly and shows it around, not saying anything. “So that’s my project,” he says, rushing through the words.

Aubrey, the professor, sitting on a desk in the corner, says, “Wow, Steve. These are very well done. It seems that you truly embraced the project, and I’ll have to look at them closer, but I feel that I can see you begin to grow more comfortable with this – and your model – as time went on. Very good job. Who’s next?”

“Can I actually be excused?” Steve asks, putting the drawings back into his portfolio as fast as he can without ruining them.

“Um. Sure. I suppose you can,” Aubrey says slowly, confused, and Steve nearly throws the portfolio onto her desk, grabs his bag, and runs out of the room.

 

…

 

Steve stands in the park, beneath the tree he and his mother used to sit under. The early summer rush, the hot panic, is over, and the slow heat of August has replaced it. Steve’s bag sits at his feet, and he surveys everyone walking past, waiting for a familiar head of brown hair. People are walking their dogs, lying on blankets with lovers or friends, reading books, listening to music, biking. Lives move around him. He is still.

His anxiety builds, and several times, he nearly convinces himself that he’s completely wrong about all of this, and he’s doing the wrong thing.

But Steve is nothing if not headstrong, and he’s switched tracks. Now, he knows how he feels, and he won’t let it fly under the radar anymore. Bucky needs to know. Steve owes that much to him.

Bucky walks through the park to where Steve said to meet him. He’s convinced that Steve is going to tell him never to talk to him again. Maybe he should have just texted and apologized. Maybe he was stupid not to.

It’s too late now, though, the damage is done, so he walks up to Steve, stands in front of him, hands in his pockets. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment, a terrifying moment where all possibilities still exist. Bucky’s brain rushes through them in a blur, but he doesn’t make it all the way through before Steve is kissing him.

And Bucky can tell from the kiss, the way Steve’s lips meet his gently, not urgent at all, that this isn’t a last kiss. It isn’t one of desperation either.

Steve doesn’t need to say the words for Bucky to know what this kiss is, but he pulls away and looks up into his eyes anyway. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything.” He takes a deep breath, and Bucky’s eyes flutter closed for a moment before opening to meet Steve’s as he tells him, “I love you too, Bucky.”

_I love you too, Bucky._

It echoes in Bucky’s mind for a long, long time.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys, I can't express my thanks to you enough for all of your kudos and support throughout the process of writing this fic. It's been 6 months! That's a really long time, and a lot of you have stuck with me since the beginning. If you took the time to press kudos, subscribe, or write a comment, you can't know how much that means to me. So thank you.  
> If you just started reading this yesterday or six months ago, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for reading. The least I can do for you in return is hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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